For Miami Stories Event
The Mango Tree
Year: 1987, Summer
Setting: A crowded, clattering airplane cabin. Sunlight streams through the tiny window, highlighting dust motes dancing in the air.
Characters:
- Abuela (grandmother): Short, with kind eyes and a weathered face. Dressed in a simple blue cotton dress.
- Mami (mother): Young and nervous, clutching a worn passport in her lap.
- Estrella (me): Five years old, wide-eyed and bouncing with excitement in my cramped airplane seat.
The air is thick with the smell of airplane peanuts and a melange of unfamiliar perfumes. A symphony of sounds fills the cabin: crying babies, excited chatter in a language I don't understand, the rhythmic hum of the engines.
Dialogue:
Abuela pats my hand, her touch cool and comforting. "Estas bien, mija?" (Are you alright, my dear?)
"Si, Abuela!" I bounce in my seat. "Vamos a Miami?" (Are we going to Miami?)
Mami reaches across me, a faint smile playing on her lips. "Si, mi amor. Vamos a Miami." (Yes, my love. We're going to Miami.)
A wave of turbulence rocks the plane. Abuela grabs my hand tightly, her face etched with a momentary worry. I glance at Mami, mirroring her worried frown. But then, I remember the stories – stories of sunshine and beaches, of talking parrots and juicy mangoes.
The plane levels out and Abuela squeezes my hand reassuringly. "Miami es hermoso, Estrella. Te va a encantar." (Miami is beautiful, Estrella. You'll love it.)
I nod eagerly, my gaze glued to the window. Outside, a vast expanse of fluffy white clouds stretches endlessly. Below, a glimpse of blue peeks through, dotted with tiny green squares – fields, I imagine.
The hours crawl by. I fidget, bored, until Abuela pulls out a crumpled picture book from her bag. Its pages are filled with vibrant colors, depicting strange, exotic animals – flamingos with pink feathers, monkeys swinging through lush green trees.
"Miami tiene muchos arboles de mango," Abuela says, pointing at a picture of a giant, leafy tree with golden fruit hanging from its branches. (Miami has many mango trees.)
A gasp escapes my lips. "Mango?" I've never seen a mango before, only tasted its sweet, tangy flavor in the syrupy drinks Mami sometimes buys.
Abuela nods, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Si. Dulces y deliciosos." (Yes. Sweet and delicious.)
The promise of the mango tree hangs in the air, a beacon of excitement in the monotony of the flight. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the captain announces our descent. My heart races with anticipation.
The plane banks, revealing a breathtaking panorama – a turquoise ocean stretching as far as the eye can see, dotted with sailboats. Below, a city sprawls, a maze of white buildings and emerald green palm trees.
"Miami," Abuela whispers, a touch of awe in her voice.
The plane touches down with a satisfying thud. As we taxi towards the terminal, I press my nose against the window, eager to get my first taste of this new, mango-scented adventure.