I used to hate the taste of mangos.

The explosion of tangy sweetness,

The odd, curved shape,

And the disgusting shade of yellow;

The one that could only make me think of as

Decaying Gold.

My family loved them.

They were obsessed,

And would buy them as treats every weekend from the grocery store.

"Look!" They'd cry out.

"Look at what we brought!"

"Fruit of the sun!"

And they'd laugh and share in the tender flesh, juice running down their chins and smiles

All while I'd merely glare at them, spiteful at being left out

But too grossed out with the putrid fruit to join in.

Now, though,

I feel my heart clench and eyes burn as I look down at the succulent produce.

I allow myself a sob, before I muffle it by stuffing its protruding edge into my mouth,

And bite.

"They would've loved this," my mind cries out.

"They would've laughed if they could see my expressions now."

The tears finally fall into my cheeks as I swallow.

"They would've...."

But they can't.

Not after the shooting.