Standing taller than the balcony,
Thick, brownish wood and thick, deep green leaves.
We open the door of the sala.
We're sitting next to the balcony,
Viewing all of the heart-shaped mangoes.
I was six-years-old, but I was small.
Our big tree is fat with mangoes;
Green, huge, and peering from between leaves.
We take down all that we could take down
And gave them to the next-door neighbors,
To the kids at the basketball court
Of the little white Mormon chapel.
And the leftovers we cut so small,
They are like green and nutritious chips,
Piled up on a huge, glass see-through plate.
Then we pour soy sauce on a glass cup
For a dip for the green mango/chips.
Like junk food, but truly nutritious.
Sitting beside a cool, shaded pond
In the old Nayong Pilipino.
Buying lunch from a mango vendor,
Though on an extremely tight budget.
But they ran out of bagoong.
I was eleven, but I was thin.
So they put lots of white, grainy salt
On my huge, green half of a mango.
It is acidic and burns my lips,
But I love the taste of this new find.
(And loved mango with salt ever since.)
I wish I could stay in this country
Until my very final, last breath.
Having cherished the local cuisines:
The bitter, the spicy, the salty.
Green, yellow, or somewhere in between,
Timeless mangoes, with or without rice.
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