Growing up on a mango grove is something I can’t imagine not experiencing. The ever-resonating sound of cicadas entrances the mind, and takes you away. A few rouge White Ibises are often seen frequenting the newly cut grass, and I feel compelled at my own expense to take the long way around them, so as to not disturb.
Dawn approaching, your field of vision is reduced and your view of the nearby streets skewed. At these instances I’m taken aback, or rather just back, as I get the eerie feeling that my grandfather, and his father before him must have imagined this moment for me in their time.
Just prior to the extreme summer months that beckon the essence of these fruits to flow forth through the trees’ newly acquired pink blooms, I find myself carrying around four or five easy-peel oranges from the few orange trees remaining. The peels are scattered about as a friendly reminder of where I’ve been, with the trail doubling back towards the source of the fruit a time or two.
After the season has passed the massive Java Plum trees begin to produce. Picking them, I’m told that my great-grandmother once fancied them as a jam. It’s at that moment I’m confronted with an odd realization. Not of insignificance, nor a lack of importance. Rather, an inkling of the power and majesty of these trees, and plant life in general. I feel it's through these plants that life as we know it is possible, and that they must have souls as well.
See also: Java Plum
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