Green,
green as an emerald
it hangs
on my neighbor's tree,
waiting to be picked.
I remember climbing
my grandfather's tree,
the mango tree he planted
and plucking
the very first fruit.
But then,
my grandfather died,
and took the tree with him.
I remember my grandmother
pickling the mangoes
the salt, the spice, the sourness,
the smells are still in my nose,
the tastes in my mouth.
But then she died,
and the pickles died with her.
The hard, green skin
the large fruit
the tangy taste
that makes me wince
with pleasure.
When summer comes,
the hard green
becomes a golden yellow
as the fruit ripens,
my soul with it.
Now, I stare impatiently
right out of my window
till the mango falls
right onto the ground
and into my waiting hands
and eager mouth.