His Sins Against Mangoes Went Unpunished
A Short Memoir Immortalizing his Crimes Against a Beloved, Innocent Fruit
“Are you coming in or do you want to wait in the truck?”
My dad asked before running into the store with his s/o at the time.
“I’ll wait in the truck,” I replied. My brother and her son also stayed back with me.
We were on a family summer vacation in a rural, small town in Ontario. My dad had rented us a lakeside cottage he found on Kijiji, the place we’d call home for the next two weeks. On the way there, we stopped at the local grocery store to pick up a few things for our stay.
It was a small cherry pink brick & mortar store, with faded yellow graffiti on one side of the building. The roof was awfully worn down. Presumably from having lived through many harsh Canadian winters. The store’s facade was complete with roof-to-sidewalk-length clear windows. Nothing like the well-maintained big box grocers you’d find in the heart of a bustling city or suburbia.
The parking lot was quite empty too, typical for a small town like this one. Which was great for us, since we got a spot right in front of the store. The perfect place for people-watching while we patiently waited for them to finish their shopping.
