I remember holding his hand as he led our family in prayer when his father died.
The strength of his faith coursed through his firm grip, but I saw he had tears in his eyes and his voice plummeted to gravel now and then. One or two adults among us shifted awkwardly, for their faith was not as strong, but they persisted in the ritual. For all were joined by sadness and family ties as we held our similar-looking hands together.
The catapult of years is swift and now he, my uncle who loved his Lord — for that’s what he said years later — is dead.
All I can think of, apart from the warmth of spirit in his hands, was that he told us kids that there was an insect inside a mango pip, and we should try to get it out. I don’t know if that’s true. In the forty-six years since, I have never been able to open a mango pip.
©2019 Allison Wright
[161 words – 12 minutes total]
2 thoughts on “Mangoes”
This post inspired me to write of my dad’s death. Isn’t it strange what we most remember about people once they are gone? For me it is often their idiosyncratic sayings..or a dish they made for me. Lovely writing.
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I am now unashamed to repeat my dad’s old jokes. Yet we would groan and complain each time he pulled one of his favourites out of the Compendium of Biological Impossibilities & Other Silly Things in his mind (or whatever name my sister and I gave it – it did have the word, Compendium and Biology in it, as I recall). Like the one where if you eat a lot of food, and then have a drink, the liquid sloshes about on top of the food inside your stomach. 🙂