Fractured Portraiture of Indoor Mango Tree

You inherited the mango tree from your mother. Standing at just under seven feet, you had a difficult time moving it up two flights of creaking stairs and into your studio apartment. Despite its towering size, you manage to find space for it next to the fridge.

*

Though you’re not sure what to do with it all, you are grateful the tree bears so much fruit. You have made endless puddings, smoothies, bread, and even an unsuccessful curry. Your cat spends hours licking at the mango skins left abandoned from your cooking on the table. Your friend suggests you try selling excess fruit.

*

You learned how to cut mangoes from your mother. You remember how she would squeeze each one softly in her grip, knowing their exact ripeness only by their tenderness—how she would swiftly slice two halves around the pit, letting the juice drip between her fingers and onto the floor. She would tear the fruit from the seed then, only to leave it naked on the sink next to empty skins.

*

You take your cat to the vet because she’s been more lethargic than usual. The vet looks you in the eye and asks if your cat has been eating anything new lately, so you tell her about your unending supply of mangoes. There’s a chemical in mango skins called urushiol, she says. It’s kind of like poison ivy—too much, and you’ll turn red and itch. You should make sure you get rid of them when you’re done.

*

It’s now the oppressive oatmeal warmth of summer, so you decide to start selling your mangoes at one dollar each. One woman buys a dozen and says they’re the best she has ever tasted. Another man grimaces and says he can find better ones at Trader Joe’s. You still owe hundreds on your vet bill.

*

You remember how even when you had next to nothing, your mother would buy premium plant food and hum softly to the mango tree under the moonlight.

*

Urushiol. You roll the consonants around on your tongue and let the vowels linger. You learn that urushiol is also used in a lacquer to restore broken ceramics. You write it down in your notebook, connecting the waves of each letter like an ocean, building and building until they finally break.

*

You keep the last letter your mother sent nestled within the branches of the tree. You read it in bits, not yet able to read it all at once. Her writing loops in a way that is still unfamiliar, and it takes you a moment to decipher the last lines. I’m sorry we haven’t talked much after I left. Can I see you again sometime?

*

The pile of mango skins grows steadily on the kitchen counter, each of them in varying states of decay. Their scent fills the room with nostalgia, and you remember the careful dance of you and your mother in fish sauce kitchens—memory is an itch you cannot bite down on.