A mango tree along the road home has ripened and lined the pavement with its rotten core

A mango tree along the road home has ripened because it is now mango season, or in other words, it is time to turn our fists to the sweltering heat and grab the yellow summer sun by its collar and kiss its sweet tears away. It has come the time for summer breaks, in its feverish white glow and reckless abandon and memories that sticks to the sheets of an unmade bed. We must navigate our social schedules like tip-toeing around the rotten brown spots of half chewed mangos, sickly sweet, with too little space to avoid catching some of the unwarranted waste of early birds. This is a stretch of red carpet, stained maroon by the wash of nectar spilled from a scene of carnage and celebration. There is no bypassing it. We must tread onwards to the fancies of the Seasons, without stopping, and past all these sloppy drunkards laid out in the pavements half dead, loose skin all over the place. The way home is paved with the rotten cores of mangos. This is the brazenness of summer.