This post was written for Five Minute Friday.
Five minutes to free write about it.
Today I ate a really good mango and thought of my mother.
We lived in a country where mangoes were plentiful. The big ones were our favorites, and we would share them. Since I didn't like getting my hands messy, we had a little ritual. My mother would cut off the sides and give them to me, and then peel the skin off the pit and take the middle of the mango for herself.
While I used a spoon to scoop the flesh out of my skins, she used her hands to hold the pit as she proceeded, with great gusto, to eat every bit of fruit attached to it, savoring each bite, and proclaiming that the middle of the fruit was the most flavorful part. Sticky hands did not bother her one bit. Nor did the juice that dribbled down her chin.
Now I eat a whole mango by myself, and think of my mother, and feel sad.