Mango

Mango

It’s so weird that it had to happen today, the most normal day of my life. I always thought that in the morning of my dying day, I would wake up knowing it. Maybe the omen would come to me in a dream. The kind that completely vanishes when you open your eyes but leaves an undeniable feeling of a faded memory that sticks with you the whole day. I would wake up and for the last time ever I would take in the first breath of the day and from that moment on I would be bombarded by my senses until the ultimate moment. All the scents would be perceived, one after the other, without judging bad from good. Sounds too. Instead of getting all mixed in the chaotic urban routine, they would just wait for their turn to reach my eardrums and tell me each of their stories. My sight would capture every color, texture and contrast that give shape to the world. My skin would be so sensitive that wind would dress it like satin and even the faintest sunray would warm up every cell in my body. Finally, to satiate my aching taste, nothing but a mango. If I had ever been condemned to death and had to choose one final meal, there is no doubt I’d ask for a mango. Anyone who has ever had a mango in their lives knows it requires all of the senses in order for it to be fully appreciated. That even the sound of ripping fabric that it makes when you bite is oddly satisfying. That’s why I don’t like anything made out of mango, no juices, no smoothies nor desserts. The fruits hide during a period amongst the leaves of its tree, but when the time comes they acquire all sorts of yellow and orange tones, each of them turning into the most beautiful looking sunset. The premature ones start falling, their peels rip open and their pulp ferments, exhaling a sweet and sour scent, that lures you into stopping by on the way to work, like a pirate attracted by a mermaid’s chant. You grab a rock, and at this point in your life you only need one. You tilt your head up and look for the one with the brightest orange tone in the palette, retrieving it with a precise throw. Can you smell its fresh skin as you cut around it? The juice drips over your hands and you barely notice, for it has the same temperature as your own body. You take that first bite, the fibers tangle between your teeth. You grip both halves with sticky hands and tears the sweet tropical flesh with animal bites. Your senses can now bring you back to any point in your life or even show you a hopeful future, but if that were me, I’d just sit under the shade of that mango tree and enjoy that very experience.


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