Two untended mango trees prevail rugged in my parents’ house as the seasons scuttle north, and then sail slowly south. They joyfully poke their impetuous trunks in the wide eye of the sky; daring the affronted elements to unleash overwhelming forces to test their timber tenacity.
Sticky-billed birds flock furtively to the young fruit on the trees, before they’re ripe to eat, and drill yawning gorges in their slowly-softening skin. The raw and ravished buddings dangle rough and woozy from the weather-beaten branches. The evil elements dispatched the birds.
These terrible times have cleanly licked the last syrupy drops out of the sweetness of callow youth, and succeeded it with a cutting, ruthless ripeness. So, babies-not-long-gone are daily striking a cruel blow at the trusting, slumbering world. The sweet innocence of age, ken and lore is repeat-raped savagely by the unfledged, silly stripling.