Sweet surrender

(Image from here)

My eyes catch the light shining in through the lace curtains and pooling around the succulent mangoes overflowing the small silver centerpiece bowl on the table. My stomach growls softly as I reach over and grab one. Placing it between my hands I turn it over and over, loving the feeling of its smooth, cool texture against my dry palms. I bring it to my nose and inhale the strong, sweet pungent order waifing in with the light breeze. Memories intertwine with the smell, taking me back years when I was a child.

I remember mother sitting outside out Kenyan house, in the unkempt grassy courtyard, patiently bruising the tender mangoes in her lap, pressing her two thumbs and pushing hard against the pit, over and over again. As she went on she would weave tales keeping us enthralled for hours, passing the time in a relaxed pace. For a while, enveloping us against the bustle and noise of everyday life. I cherished those frequently lessening times; where she was young, carefree and alive. She would bite a small hole at the top of each mango and hand it to us; and bringing the small cut into our mouths we would eagerly suck the sweet, thick, sugary juice until skin of the mango would collapse against the pit, sucked dry.

I still love mangoes, the glossy red, plump ripeness, the little green patches on the skin; and as I bite into its soft sweetness, the juice runs down my chin and drips on the tablecloth, forming a puddle of yellow.

I take my time, lean against the sun warmed counter, slowly savoring memories.