Fruits of Our Labor - Anjali Johnson
There’s still a mango tree outside my house. I can see it through my bedroom window. God, I remember when I had to hang out of the kitchen window
downstairs to see the little patch of fresh soil. I would jump and jump; my little flip flops clapping on the marble tiles. And Dad would have to give me a boost onto
the kitchen counter. Even though it hurt my ribs... hanging over, since I was so much shorter than you then. And even though my mom protested, he did. That
must’ve been, what, 18 years ago. Everything’s so different now. I mean not everything, I’m still shorter.
Now Ms. Emaline is dead. I’m graduating next month; Sophia next year. But I have a new apartment. Finally, my own space. After months, years of grace periods
that never really got to end. From here, to space camps, to college dorms, to a fully furnished apartment. I can’t believe that tree outlived her.
And the flash of sun that would reflect off the window onto our shoulders like clockwork: 3 pm every day of every summer we’ve ever had here. I can still feel it if
I focus hard enough, even though it is January. I shouldn’t be here.
That tree, yes, that one, is looking right at me. It looks sad, like it's grieving. The limbs are hanging, and the bark is losing its color. I am too, I guess. All those years
ago, I remember thinking that was the brightest mango tree of them all. I remember thinking I was the brightest little mango tree gardener of them all too. Even
better than you. But really it was Ms. Emaline, helping us pack the dirt.
My suitcase is full of dark clothes; to the brim. I could barely get it to close. Plus, I packed some extra options for you. You’re lucky the zipper didn’t actually break.
But that’s the Labor of Love, amiright?
Call me back.
Please.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Anjali is a UAlbany sophomore and double major in Psychology and English. She loves to write in a variety of subjects and forms. She writes about how girlhood is defined across a lifetime, changes in our world, and what they mean for old and new generations. She uses writing as a tool that converts emotion into action, in order to hold communities accountable.