Photo by Carlos Aristizabal
I do not have a green thumb.
On the contrary, it seems plants wilt by my mere presence.
What I do have is perseverance, tenacity and a whole lot of love to give, whether my foliage wants it or not. I started small, a fern here, an orchid there, but I’m sad to report the outcome was always the same (let’s leave it there).
While my failures — and any sense of logic — should have led me to invest in faux plants, it spurred me to go big and plant trees instead. After all, there was plenty of space in my backyard and I relished the idea of large-scale success.
The choice of tree was simple: mango. Beyond the notable details that it is one of my favorite fruits, one could say it was in my DNA. My Israeli father, a serial entrepreneur, had owned a mango farm when I was a teen growing up in Venezuela — a nod to the kibbutz life he, a Jerusalemite, yearned to fulfill. For most of my teen years, I took endless supplies of extraordinary mango for granted: boxes and boxes of the luscious, aromatic fruit magically appeared in our kitchen and consequently on my plate. Everything from mango smoothies to mango upside-down cake to freshly cut mango was a regular staple seven days a week.
What’s more, I had helped plant the first trees on the farm, something that, looking back on now, was most likely my father’s desperate attempt to spend time with his temperamental teenage daughter who wanted nothing to do with her dad. Still, the trees had thrived so what was the harm in trying again?
I planted my young mango tree ten years ago, almost to this day. My son named it “Matt” and the tending began. For those not aware, it takes years for mangos to bear fruit, a detail I conveniently forgot. As the years passed and Matt grew, I watered, fertilized and fretted like a worried mother.
Fruit arrived around year five but was hard as a rock and almost instantly fell off the tree. Even the squirrels wanted nothing to do with Matt’s efforts. Each year I’d wait for summer hoping things would change, but they never did. I remained optimistic and upped my game, playing music and offering tone-deaf-but-equally-heartfelt renditions of “I Will Survive” hoping Matt would forgive Gloria Gaynor for being booked elsewhere.
This past summer Matt was loaded with fruit, much more than the average seven or so mangoes I’d grown accustomed to expect. Over the days, the mangos turned from green to sunset hues of orange and red. I held my breath. The squirrels looked on skeptically. Even the blue jays and iguanas showed interest.
Eventually, they were ready to eat. One bite and I was taken back to my younger self and those endless mango days. Matt’s fruit was equally supple, fragrant and phenomenal.
Oftentimes being kind lacks a roadmap. You may see a return in your actions, you may not. Those mangos I ate this summer were some of the best I’d ever had. But were they possibly that delicious because they were connected to a history filled with love and care?
I still kill plants, even succulents. Yes, even succulents. But Matt stands tall, proud and healthy in my backyard as a reminder of what love, care and kindness can bear. Hopefully, they’ll be even sweeter mangos come next summertime.
Happy Reading!
Alona Abbady Martinez
alona@bocaratonobserver.com