Derek Palacios

Mangos

      The simplest meals are the most satisfying. Behind my father’s childhood house in Santiago, Cuba, was once a beautiful mango tree. The dark green leaves provided ample shade for lazy afternoons spent leaning against the trunk. The branches fanned out from the thin trunk and crafting what looked like a tattered green fabric umbrella jutting out from the fertile ground. The leaves were thin and clumped together, forming bunches of seemingly slender, emerald colored fingers. On a clear day the sun would slide between those fingers, creating patterns of light that resembled fish darting left and right depending on which way the branches swayed in the wind.

      After mornings spent with my grandfather carefully watching over the plantation, my father would return to the house to play in and around the trees and the gardens. When in season, my grandmother would pluck ripe red-green mangoes from the tree and take them back to the veranda. My father would sit on the steps and wait patiently, or impatiently, for my grandmother to cut and slice the fruit.

      The flesh of a mango is peach-like and juicy. Unlike its waxen outer layer, the fruit itself is malleable and easily gives way to a knife. The flesh is a dull but thick orange-yellow combination and softens to the touch when ripe. Each mango matures at a different pace, though all develop slowly. One side of the tree might be abundant with fully grown mangoes while the other side has but the beginnings of fruit. To the blind tongue the mango is slightly acidic, but still sugary. The scent is almost too inviting; a sweet, tender aroma that might lead one to believe this to be the forbidden fruit of Eden.

      She would give him a glass of water or maybe some ice tea to accompany his midday mango. It was unnecessary; the juices overflowing his bottom lip and sliding down his five-year-old chin. She would smile as he watched her cut another ripe specimen, deftly guiding the knife down its center and splitting it in two as the seed falls between the halves.

      He recalls only one mango tree behind his house; the seeds of that tree almost always being discarded as inedible aspects to a delicious fruit. The passing of the knife was a forceful entry into the womb, the fruit being plucked before serving its natural purpose. The tree would cycle through the years, blossoming flowers and birthing mangoes. Perhaps my abuela was the hand of some god, destroying creation before allowing it to resurrect itself. Does Shiva feast upon the remains of fallen life?

      «Gracias» would barely escape the lips of my father before finishing his fruit and fleeing the veranda. Time could not be wasted in thanking either the mango tree or my grandmother. The taste and the pleasure of the food were fleeting and did not ripen with the passing of minutes. I doubt my father ever noticed the sun setting on a blooming mango tree and rising again the next day to branches overflowing with fruit. Unobserved yet enjoyed was this change. He loved what he never saw.