The green mangoes were dropping all day at school. I’ve seen them fall before and they come crashing down and split open when they land if they’re soft enough: bright yellow orange on the inside, encased in a brown-speckled pistachio-grass-mint skin. They drop down with serious force and, when they land on the terra cotta roof tiles, like they did today, make such a loud noise it is like a gunshot or a firecracker or a thunderclap, all the sounds I’ve become accustomed to while living here. And so, even during our thirty minutes of silent reading, hardly any of us looked up or jumped, caught in the bindings of our books, when time after time we heard a giant, fruity thud. I assume the most it did was make us blink our eyes as we moved along the page, and maybe I was the only one counting the number of thuds, but I lost track and interest after 5, so wrapped up in my book was I.
You should have seen the sky today. It was impossibly blue. There were no clouds whatsoever and against the green of the trees it was like my eyes hadn’t known what color was until today. I imagine I felt a bit like Dorothy did when she stepped outside her fallen home, the bright yellow of the brick road a little like the insides of the green mangoes that dropped all during our silent reading. Thud, thud, thud.