Mango Moments

Charlie Hoang, from when Mango Moments was written 

By: Charlie Hoang

It’s hard to reflect with a sticky elbow.

The collapse of tender pulp told his fingertips the mango was ripe. He sank his teeth into the thick skin and tore. Past the chalky bitterness lay sweet fruit. He ate. 

Often moments like these, mango moments, were too short. He had tried to stretch one mango infinitely once or twice, but failed. And now, on his many-eth mango, he indulges a sacrosanct routine. Investigating the world around him, always with a mango in hand. He is not an animal. He is an introspective man, driven by fibrous sweets. Diabetic and in need of stability. 

He looks outside and breathes consciously, big breaths that signify he’s present and in the moment. Not thinking of the mango. Not paying attention to the juice dripping down his forearm and tickling his elbow. He watches a bird perch itself on his fence. A beautiful mundane sight. He sighs out of boredom and tries to focus on the fresh green grass, and how grateful he is to have it, grass gratitude. He thinks enough time has passed to take another bite, so he does. 

By now, the sugar is too much for his old teeth, but he swishes and sucks the mango meat anyway. By now, he sweats more than the mango itself, and by now, the hot air has stolen a lick. The fruit is as warm outside as it is inside his mango mouth: that homeostasis. He curses the day for ruining this savory moment, but alas, the day did not plan around the mango as he had. What did that say about him, he wonders. It’s hard to reflect with a sticky elbow.