Under the Mango Tree
In the summers of my childhood, I often spent hours gazing up the dancing leaves of our mango tree. I’d sit in the shade provided by the canopy of leaves. It was there I watched the maya birds build a nest and they taught me the rewards of patience and perseverance. I can still feel how the rough cracked bark felt against my fingertips. I got acquainted with the haunting scent of blooming mango flowers. And when the leaves rustled with the summer breeze, it created a lullaby that cast a spell on my soul. Until now, when it starts to feel like everything in the world is out of sync, I close my eyes and imagine that my head is resting on the back of our wrought iron garden seat with my knees drawn to my chest, looking up the mango tree and bringing back the calming feel of being ‘home’.
Our mangoes were well-known on our street for their sweetness and in the summer it often dangled massive bunches of the heart shaped fruits that teased and taunted the passersby. Many times we had to deal with petty thieves who had creative ways to steal a bunch or two.
When the mangoes were near-ripe or manibalang, it would still be firm but slightly yellow inside but green outside. I’d mix some rock salt with granulated sugar and dip the mangoes with it. But the best way to eat them would be when they were at the peak of their ripeness. My mom used to slice the mango against the seed to get two fleshy portions. Then she would slash the mango flesh horizontally and vertically with the tip of a knife and then turn the flesh out from the skin to create a sweet yellow mango bonnet.
At its abundance when they ripened, we’d peel the skin off in a spiral and eat the flesh straight from the pit. Then the bright yellow juice would dribble down our chin and arms and then drip from the elbows. It was certainly NOT a first date moment.
A powerful storm had blown the tree’s main trunk to rest on the west side of the roof. For months it just rested there and created an eerie sound whenever the tree swayed with the wind during a storm. My old bedroom sat right underneath the shadow of the tree. While everyone else in the house slept through the creeks and pops and cracks that the tree made as it rubbed against the house, my imagination ran amok and many nights I scared myself to sleep.
That old house had to be torn down in 1978 and also the tree that had to give way to the construction of our new home.
Years later, I still have not enjoyed mangoes as much as I had from our old tree. In my head, the sight, sounds and smell are still alive – vibrant and strong especially when I close my eyes. Sometimes when I try really hard, I can still taste the itchiness of the fibrous end of the pit that connects to the stem and feel the stickiness of the sap that bleeds from the fruit when you pick it off from the branch.