Outside my door a collection of children harshly rap at a mango tree with a long pole. The tree whackers have to shield their heads as they go in to retrieve the green rounds out of the dust. I love how things so gently collide around my house. Mango trees to me are exotic, a tree that grows far away from New England apple trees that don’t take up near the amount of sky and air space that the wide mango limbs do. But to see the exotic I have to duck my head, peeking under my laundry which is mostly old t-shirts which have aged that much more with sun and sweat. And when I duck I smell a book my grandmother sent me that smells like her particular mixture of vanilla perfume and fabric softener. My Ipod plays a Sufjan Stevens song nestled against my candleholder which, soon be my only source of light as the sun goes down. Then there is the Wellesley Alumna magazine claiming her chunk of table as people outside speak Timbuka, which I wouldn’t put pass another Wellesley women to understand. All of these things, songs, and smells co-mingle, in gentle juxtapositions that make me wish that this was true globalization. The acceptance present among mango trees for American t-shirts and smells of Downy all being blow by pre-rainy season winds.
