The Mango Tree

The mango tree in our courtyard was older than any of us, and it was in charge. When it dropped a fruit on the roof at night, everybody woke up. When it flowered, the whole street smelled like a wedding. When it decided to rest for a season and give no fruit at all, my grandmother would sit beneath it and speak softly, as one speaks to a friend who is tired.

My cousins and I lived beneath that tree for the whole of one long, golden summer. We drew maps in the sand, argued about which of us would one day become president, and ate so many mangoes that our fingers stayed yellow until school began again.

When I visit home now, the tree is still there. It is older, of course, and a little bent, and one of the largest branches had to be tied to the wall of the house for support. My grandmother is no longer there to speak to it. So sometimes, when nobody is looking, I sit beneath it and I speak to it myself. I do not tell it anything important. I just let it know I have come back.