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.