It's 3:00 am.
I woke up suddenly about an hour ago. I had been dreaming. Of what, I cannot be certain. A few, fleeting images come to mind.
A beach, very young children, an airplane.
I don't know what to make of them.
But now, as sleep starts to weigh my eyelids down again, my mind is drifting aimlessly.
I'm thinking of mangoes.
Sweet, succulent mangoes.
Of their comfortably familiar taste and smell.
Of how they make me feel like a child again.
Of my grandmother's mango milkshake.
Of how, during summer, my mother used to leave my sister and me in our underclothes and give us one each, and allow us to make absolute messes of ourselves when we were little.
Of how you once tasted of them when I kissed you.
Of feeding them to you with my fingers.
Of the soft slurping sound you'd make as you sucked them into your mouth.
Of the inevitable trickle of juice down your chin.
Yes, I must remember to pick some mangoes up sometime soon.
