A brief, perhaps strange, perhaps not always read like a mango, an open love letter to yellow fruit
A scream from the first victim reminiscent of a Slasher movie echoes in my home every year. It breaks the tranquility of birdsong and warm air, almost every June being hit by the UK's "surprise heatwave." A familiar foreigner appears on my kitchen bench, visiting every year, sitting there, exuding a scent that instantly takes me back to my childhood and sends a tingling from my heart to other parts of my body. Anyone would think I scream out of fear, as every year I hear footsteps running to check what’s wrong, only to quickly laugh.
I am stimulating excitement, this happiness making noise from the deepest parts of my body, as if the devil himself is screaming from within "glutton." He knows exactly the sin I am about to commit. For Eve, there was an apple, but for me, it’s a mango.
S OME mango trees have lived for 300 years. My genealogy spans over 300 years across South Asia, in countries that make mango the national fruit. I don’t think I am the first girl to scream at mango harvests, accidentally tearing into flesh, letting juice drip everywhere. Face. Fingers. Feet. The ground. A temperamental, messy, not blue...