On Mangoes and my Grandmom

I don’t think I’d like mangoes if not for her.

In all honesty, some days I hate having them. She enters my room with a plate full of nicely cut mangoes, twinkling eyes, asking me to taste just one. Oh and every time she promises that the new lot tastes better and different. Some days I argue and say no. Some days, I give in.

Mangoes and her, are like a kid who found his lost toys. Every summer, she talks about her childhood; how much she enjoyed mangoes with her siblings. I’ve heard that story a 100 times but every single time she says it, the excitement remains the same. I don’t see the same joy in her for anything else. Maybe cause they take her back to her childhood.

I’m realising that I now associate mangoes with her; more than I do with summers. At any point, when I’ll see or have a mango, I will think of her because I don’t think I’d like mangoes if not for her.

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