Sweet Summers

​

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.”