Crack the Spine - Issue 182

At last, she walked into the kitchen, her bare feet slapping against the floor, her hands gliding along cabinets and the icebox door. She stopped when she saw the screendoor to our backyard. She stared. We could hear her breathing, deep and slow. We could not remember the last time we heard her breath, and we embraced its deliberate passage. We followed her gaze to the darkened remnants of our mango tree. The sickly sweet smell of ruptured fruit, littering the sparsely green ground, drifted in on the trades. We pushed the screen door open. “Do you want to go outside? Do you want to play? What do you want?”

She turned around, went back to her room, and stopped walking, altogether.

Her silence infected our lives. Still afraid to voice our fears, words drifted through our minds: aberrant, unnatural, odd. We needed her to be more than a confirmation of our genius. So, we began to question our own desires as we observed her. It was as if a bubble had formed around her, pushing outward from her being, encroaching on our lives. Unknowingly, we welcomed its empty embrace.

In the night, an aroma floated through our house, and we followed its trail back to Tita’s room. As she lay in her crib, we stepped closer to discover that the smell came from her little body. Immediately, we identified the scent of mango flowers. We picked her up, but touching her released a stronger fragrance as if we had rubbed our thumb against a tiny petal, bruising it. Her eyes were closed and she did not open them when we placed her back in her crib. We prayed.

Tita died the day our mango tree was born. It was immediate. One moment of careful consideration transformed into a release of pressure confined too long.

Our mango tree sprung back to life the minute Tita took her last breath, spreading branches and flowering fruit, sprouting back into our existence.