​ Leaves rustled, whispering sweet nothings. That sweet wind— ah! a true prize in this sweaty summer. But not sweeter than the golden fruit hanging above. Its aroma hit your nose from miles away. And the sweetness— it struck all the right spots, every time. Summer vacations lived in this backyard, running so fast we forgot our legs. I walked to the big tree, dusting off the swing, and sat. Memories flashed— or maybe it was just the dust watering my eyes. That didn’t last long. “Ouch,” I cried, as the golden fruit met my head. I picked it up. One whiff— and I was back in the best days. I saw the little me, sprinting, breathless, to announce: “Ammachi! There’s a ripe mango  on the tree.”