The Last Mango

Grandpa sliced the mango with practiced hands, golden juice sliding down his fingers.

"Real sweetness takes time," he’d say, handing me a slice like it was treasure.

Summers meant sticky cheeks, sunburned laughs, and his gentle voice echoing under the neem tree.

One day, the chair was empty. The knife lay still.

I sliced one myself. Messy, uneven. But somehow... still sweet.

I called my son. “Want a piece?”

He nodded, eyes wide.

I handed it over.

"Real sweetness takes time and effort,” I whispered.

The mango melted on our tongues, and for a second—Grandpa smiled through both of us.

***

Thanks for reading!

Author's Notes:

This drabble—exactly 100 words—is a tribute to my late grandfather, whom we lovingly called Grandpa.

He was the quiet backbone of our family, a man who found poetry in the simplest rituals—cutting fruit, brewing chai, sitting beneath a tree without saying a word. Every summer, mangoes became more than fruit—they were a ceremony of love, patience, and shared moments.

Grandpa passed away years ago, but every summer, when I peel that first mango, it’s like I’m holding his memory in my hands.

I wrote this piece to remember him, and to celebrate how the smallest things—like a mango slice—can carry lifetimes of warmth.