You bought me. Now use me. You’ve opened the fridge enough.

Pick me up. Hold me. Feel me. Run your hands over my skin, my scars. Push your thumbs into my flesh. Feel it give.

Lift me to your nose. Smell me. Don’t go for that plastic bottle again, that tub, that chocolate, that milk, that butter, that spread.

Bend over a little more. Come down to my shelf. I’m here. I’m waiting. I’ve been here long enough. Now’s the time. I’m ripe. I’m only going to get softer, shrivel up. My skin is already beginning to pinch.

Have you never had one of us before? Is that why you’re avoiding me? You look at me, consider, then turn away. What’s wrong with you? I’m going to blacken. Spots are already starting to appear.

Quick. Before I’m gone, before I’m wasted. Look at my yellow flesh. Cut me. Take me. Don’t you know what to do with me? Are you afraid? Was I an impulse buy, a whim? Were you bullied into it? Did you hear about me, think I would be a good thing, buy me then instantly regret it? Don’t you know what I’m full of, what I’m good for?

You can’t leave me now. Not after what I’ve been through. I was made for you. Grown for you. I didn’t ask to be born, but I’m here now. Take me.

Think about what brought me here. All the work. The planting, the ploughing, the irrigation, the pruning of branches, of trees where my future siblings could have been born. Think about the loss and the love, the fertiliser, the sprays that kept the bugs away so I could end up here. On this shelf. In your fridge.

I was harvested for you, graded for you, washed for, dried for you, waxed for you, packed for you, cooled for you.

And where are you putting me? In a hole. A plastic hole with plastic wrappers and uneaten pasta and tins and boxes and paper and mold and bits of old carrot and receipts and potato peel.

Thank you. Thank you. This is just what I wanted. Just what I hoped for when I was growing up.

You might as well have left me there. Thrown me to the ground and squished me under foot. Let my life run its natural course. Let me rot.

Thank you. Really, thank you.

I can only hope the same thing happens to you.

11 thoughts on “Mango

  1. Aww. That makes me feel sad for that mango. D= I don’t know how anyone can resist that fruit; it is absolutely delicious!

    • Sorry about that. It would be interesting if they could tell us how they felt though, no? Then we would never throw them away. Unless, of course, they were rude to us.

  2. good choice of fruit. something evocative in the name alone. a proud, sweet fruit not to wasted. I used to pick mangoes as a job for a while a couple of lives back. fill whole baskets with them. you can get mango rash, you know – the milky white sap can burn your skin. just an FYI (FYI)

  3. Makes me want to run to the fridge and use up everything on the verge of going bad before it does. Thanks for the encouragement! 🙂

    Glad you stopped by my blog. Come back any time.

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