The Mango Tree

The mango tree in my grandmother's backyard was the heart of my childhood. Its thick branches stretched wide, offering shade and golden fruit each summer. I spent countless afternoons beneath it, watching my grandmother peel mangoes with quiet precision, her wisdom woven into every gentle gesture. 

One summer, determined to reach the ripest mango myself, climbed too high. The rough bark bit into my palms, but I pressed on-until the branch beneath me snapped. I tumbled down, scraping my knee. My grandmother arrived moments later, her touch both firm and gentle. She didn't scold me. Instead, she picked up a fallen mango, placed it in my hands, and said, "The best ones always fall when they're ready." I didn't fully grasp her words then, but I do now. Life has its timing. We can climb, reach, and push, but sometimes, the sweetest things come when we wait.

Years later, after my grandmother was gone, I visited the house again. The tree still stood, still bearing fruit. I picked up a fallen mango, its scent filling the air, and smiled- remembering her, remembering the lesson, and knowing that some things, when they're ready, will find their way to us.