The Old Mango Tree

My eyes were on the mango tree across the lot. I was afraid of that tree. It was huge and scary at night. I was scared I might see ghost under it. And snakes, and bats, and little angry people.

My mother was holding my hand. Her grip was strong. She was not crying but I knew she was heartbroken. She had been crying every night. In bed. While she hugged me to sleep.

I turned to her. I looked up and searched her face. Gloomy as the day. We were standing by the window in our bedroom. When I was looking at the mango tree, she was staring down at our car parked outside, just below the window where we stood. I never realized I would never see that car again. That I will never ride on it again. That I will never sing in its passenger seat ever again.

I saw my father got out of the gate. He had a bag in his hand. I saw him put the bag at the back of the car. I saw him rode the car.

He did not look up to the window where we stood. He did not say goodbye. He did not kiss me goodbye. I always kiss his cheek every time he goes. But at that time, I thought it was different. I did not run downstairs to follow him. I do not know. I just knew that I have to stand there with my mother and hold her hand too. She needed me.

The car started to move. Slowly at first. Our gaze was on the car. I cannot remember what was on my mind. I just knew that I, too, was sad. The car turned to the corner of the street. And then, it was gone.

I did not want to cry. I wanted to be strong. I returned my eyes to the mango tree. I frowned at it. I told myself, I will never be scared of that tree again.

I was just five. A couple of months before I turned six. I did not understand everything that was happening, but I learned how to be strong that day.