Saturday, February 10, 2018


I have no idea how we got here--I don't remember the first part of the dream. I am in the garden--which is not my garden--picking mangoes from what could not be described as a tree, more like a shrub growing up against a low wall, in sunlight. Only one of the mangoes looks anything like a mango, with smooth green and reddish skin; the rest look like very large, rough-skinned potatoes.

My two grown sons are with me, helping A neighbor comes to watch. He is one of those nosy, know-it-all types, and I am a bit annoyed by his lecture about mangoes. I introduce him to my sons. He asks if he can have one of my mangoes, and I recall that he has been generous to me in the past, so I tell him, yes, he's welcome to the one he's holding. He needs both arms to cradle this one, like a baby. It is a huge, unevenly-shaped thing, more the size of a boulder than a fruit. It reminds me of pictures I have seen of asteroids, hurtling through space. But I know that it is filled with rich, juicy fruit.

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