Are These Mangoes, Stolen???

Memories, that tasted, so sweet, can’t have enough, but, all memories, eventually, MUST come to an E-N-D, translated…

“Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmm, must’ve been, that PATCH of blazing red skies of dawn, that woke me up!”

This, was my conclusion, otherwise, there was, NO way that I’m awake, at five-thirty in the morning. As I woke up, I’d, looked around, for the culprit, but, my husband and my daughter were both, sound asleep, I’d walked toward the window on the east side of my house, and, saw that burning bright light of dawn, and, I’d made up my mind, that it, was it!

the regular variety of mangoes…photo from online…

Having just waken up, still half-asleep, I’d passed through the hall, into the kitchen. And, as I’d always done, don’t know who made up THAT rule, I’d, put a kettle of water on the stove to heat.

But, wait, what is this, that’s, on the kitchen counter! Oh! Mangoes! This was, from what I’d, hauled back, from Pingong, ALL the way, at the southern tip of this island, to Taipei, the very north, passing through the island vertically. All the best fruits are, oh so heavy, there was no way I could pack more, so, I’d only, brought back a dozen.

At this moment, the mangoes are giving off that aromatic scent. Then, it’d, dawned on me, I’d, wrongfully blamed the dawn, maybe, it was, the mangoes, that, woke me up, after all, they’re, very aromatic.

I’d, hesitated a bit, then, put down that oatmeal I was so used to having for breakfast, instead, I’d started, shaving the skin off the mangoes, the mangoes were ripened and sweetened, with a hint of sourness to them, it’s a gift from God, to people in the tropics. This, is the local species, and, everything local is good, like the dogs, the fowls, the pork, the guavas too, everything that’s local, tastes better.

the specialty kind that’s here in Taiwan, photo from online…this is more scented, more tasty…

As I chewed on that golden flesh, taking in the aromas, tears started, falling, eating a mango, is it, worth all of those tears? Ahhhhhhhhh, where, do I, begin………

My house, because of my father, we’d, owned an apartment complex from 1953 to 2015. It’s a place, we grew up in, our home. Then, our parents passed away, and, we’d, needed to, return the apartment complex, back to the government. The house we’d lived in, for over sixty years total, but, when the authorities tell you, that it’s, not yours, all you can do is, move out.

Because you’d, never paid anything for it, you don’t, own the deeds to it.

And this mango, was from my trip back to my old home in Pingdong—that place, that was, no longer mine anymore, to pick. But technically, my behaviors would, constitute as, theft. Because the house had been turned over by the Department of Defense, to the city government, and thus, those two mango trees in our front yard were also, confiscated. And, my behaviors of picking a dozen mangoes off the trees that my parents looked after, became, “theft”.

not my photo…

Land, and everything above the land, WHO, does it belong to?

As the East German writer discussed the justices of the land, he’d believed, that land belongs to those who loved it and cherished it, who’d worked on it. But, the writer is a writer, and legally, the land goes to whoever the deeds were owned by. And, we don’t have the deeds, just those twelve years’ worth of memories attached to the land.

And still, life, AND memories, don’t count for much, in the minds of the public.

As I’d finished up a mango, I’d, cleaned off my hands, and dried up my tears as well. This was, from the tree on the west side of the house, the fruits from the east side of the house were larger, but because the tree on the west side was younger, it was, more than productive. From before, when my mother was still well, if we’d not returned home during the season of the fruits, she’d, packed bundles, then, mailed it to us. “Don’t they sell mangoes in Taipei too, can’t you just, save your mind some?”

My father mumbled on, but, my mother still packed it all up, and mailed it all out.

What, is eternal, in the world now?

So, the mangoes were, a symbol of home to this writer, and, as home got changed, so did the taste of the mangoes by the writer, because she’d now, attached a ton of other things that she’d experienced in her life thus far, to eating the mangoes, and that, is how we grow, how we change, how we, mature, by the day…………


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