In the kitchen, it feels hot and with wet hands the wet fruit is carried one at a time.
The sweet juicy fruit is carefully packaged in its peels. Upon looking at it, there is a soft orange in the inside, and the brighter reddish greens are on the outside. Just grabbing the sharp knife with clumsy hands, not used to incising, cutting, cutting, cutting. Sharp blade. The room smells of mango and hot summer heat, maybe also a bit of freshly mowed grass. There are all sorts of scents wafting in through the window.
Somehow this act is rewarding enough while simultaneously being mindless and possibly a bit forceful. With hands not yet steady enough for the world, the mangoes, fresh and ripe are being peeled. With every new mango—there were twelve as if for each month spent away from home—a small piece is sampled. Each time teeth sink in, the juices flow out from the side of the mouth and taste buds awaken with a sharp sweetness long missed.
With. Each. New. Cut. Hands get tired and tiny beads of sweat form with much help from the hot breeze blowing in. The hair tickles the face, particularly the cheeks and the breeze is now sweet too. A break…
Sitting down and thinking of the distance between what is home and what does not exist. Kindness from faraway non-strangers brings forward thoughts hidden away in the depths of subconsciousness. Now conscious of the arduous task, but still silently pleased. While being alone in a big house, there is some solace—the good kind—and small, but steady breaths escape. A quiet peace as each piece of mango is cut, a quiet girl and the trees outside swaying.