In the backyard, round red mangoes dream. They pull down their branches, swing in the sultry breeze, and gently rub against the orange dirt. The flashfloods of memory wash my thoughts.
Long ago, I would bang a mango against a flat rock. Squeeze the fruit between my hands until it juiced up, bite its nipple, and suck its pulp until rivers of warm, sweet juice overflowed.
One sizzling-hot summer, she strolled up. The song of her hips, a sight more lip-smacking than eating fruit flesh, made me drip. I tossed the mango and followed her grin.
Six monsoon seasons passed, and I still wanted to bang her against the bed, squeeze her tight until she juiced up, bite her nipples, suck her pulp, and watch the river overflow.
Every year, the mango tree bloomed after careful pruning. If only clipping the limb with melanoma could have the same effect on the living. Unlike the mango tree, Alina did not bloom after the trimming.
Mariel Masque – Copyright 2014
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