Ten years old,
playing hide-and-go-seek,
I ran into my grandmother’s closet.

I stepped into the darkness
breathless and giggling,
baffled when my feet
sank into soft, smooth somethings.

More intent on hiding,
I ignored the sticky juice between my toes,
tucked myself behind the itchy
woolen sweaters, and waited.

The closet door slid open
and I was found out.
The light revealed a box of mangos,
many of them crushed.

I was petulantly
unapologetic about the destruction–
why were they in the closet anyway?

I think of those mangos
and my grandmother,
her hunched, arthritic back,
and the plates of freshly sliced mango
she would place in front of me.

They were my favorite
and everyone knows
fruit ripens faster
in the dark.

5 thoughts on “mangos

  1. wow! i really liked this. what a succession of images and emotions in a small space. the image of you as a little kid stepping in the soft sticky something obliviously is so good. you’re ‘redeemed’ in a way at the end with your later understanding and appreciation of your grandmother, treating those mangos and her with reverence. the last line is a great circling back physically and metaphorically to the start but with understanding. good round sweet and squishy in the middle like you know what. great!

  2. this conjures up so many memories–
    thank you for sharing it with me.
    i miss her more than ever.
    maybe we can visit her together sometime soon?

  3. I like playing hide-and-seek, even until now. You find the most unusual yet interesting surprises. Great poem girl!

Comments are closed.