Today is the last day of mango season. There are no more fruits yet to fall, not from my tree and not from my neighbor's. The empty lot down the street is clean out of them and so is the one around the corner. All that's left are pulpy stains and woody seeds. The broken fruits I leave to the ants.
I won't miss peeling mangoes with a spoon and carving out seeds. I won't miss the orange stains on my gloves and kitchen sink. For once, the mango barrel is empty. For once, I can entertain some other fruit.
And yet there is a lingering stickiness. A smell like maple syrup, slow and sweet and almost smoky. The mangoes would ripen in the barrel and their juices would trickle out and they would thicken in the summer heat. I find myself looking forward to the next year, and to mango season again.