by Derek Otsuji
Take a sharpened blade. Notch clean beneath the stem then twist. Keep the mango turning against the blade, the pressure even. But the knife slips, slices through the unspiralling peel. For an instant—no blood, just a line drawn quick across my thumb. I curse— a thin gully parts, flushes red. How memory sometimes opens like this: I was five when I watched a mango unspool itself in your hands—the thick peel, a brilliant coil of loosening ribbon: green, red, gold. I have never been able to repeat that trick: to cut that flat, yellow-bellied snake from a mango's autumn globe. This season is no different, Grandpa. I am still waiting to learn.