VICTORIANO CÁRDENAS
The Mangoes
Bright red, orange, and yellow mangoes pepper the sandy yard outside my Abuela’s house. They fall daily. I save the best for my father to take to the base. For weeks, we have eaten mangoes at every meal, but we cannot eat any more.
Tío Emilio loves mangoes. They are his favorite. Each one he eats, he says, “Tan dulce! I’ve never had a mango sweet as this one.”
Tío Emilio has been selling extras on the roadside for some money. Abuela says he is wasting his time.
“This is its last chance to make mangoes. The tree knows there isn’t much time.”
“No te preocupes, this many mangoes can only mean one thing. God is blessing us.”
But mangoes keep falling. On windy nights, I hear them thump to the ground like heartbeats.
This morning, we have evacuation orders. The storm is a Category 5, moving closer every minute. We can’t drive to the airport with so many potholes, not in our car. Not with Abuela. My father is on base. I have not seen him in days.
Abuela has Tío Emilio nailing boards over her windows. She shouts from her porch chair, “Gather your mangoes now, you fool.”