Mystery of the recurring knee bruises: solved.

It began with two bruises on the knee. Then they became three. And then they disappeared.

Forget them I did, until one day, two bruises appeared again.

Now, this obviously shows that I’m a klutz – to the point that most knocks and bumps don’t register in my memory anymore.

But that’s not the mystery. Why my knees?

And then it hit me. Literally. Or rather, I hit myself – on the knobs at the end of my bed frame, just as I walked out of my bathroom. And I fell onto my bed.

Ow.

She gingerly picked a sour plum from the bag.

She bit into it and smacked her lips, then vigorously shook her head.

“No no no!”

We’d already made 2 attempts at picking what we deemed the ‘right’ sour plum – the right balance of sweetness and saltiness that would put taste buds into overdrive.

And we had to do this by looking through rows of plastic containers in the titbit shop. No tasting allowed. So we’re judging based on colour, amount of white substance on the wrinkled skin, and gut feel.

3 times lucky perhaps? It’s like playing sour plum jackpot.

I've decided, enough is enough.

And while I grief for loss, I still care. I don’t shut my eyes in resentment and anger and turn away from the world. I am not despairing. I am not hung up on hurt. I am broken but hopeful.

But when I make a phone call out of this care, I meet a hard wall of defence. I’ve been turned around by the shoulders and given the shove. Should I make pretend that you don’t exist?

“You see, I’m not like you. When you hurt, you have God. All I have is this darkness.”

“So, what did they say about the mangoes?”

Mom was referring to the time she brought some of these mangoes to me in KL. I peeled them and shared them around the office – all gone in barely a minute. They didn’t need to say much.

Some of these fruit had travelled far. But only because we know that season in, season out, its fruit had never failed – always sweet, always firm, always to bring a “Mmmm” out of the taster. And always a joy to be shared.

I suppose that’s what its like to have the fruit of the Spirit.

Mango #11

Mom was right. There, on my right, was a growing pile of sweet-smelling, freshly-peeled, plump yellow mangoes. Albeit some with angular pieces of flesh missing, not one fruit went to the bin whole.

The knife reveals more than we can ascertain at first. Some small bruises were only the signs of bigger ones within. But some with blackened skin had beautiful flesh to unveil.

“Don’t cut so much off first! Slowly! You’ll waste the good parts.” She kept yelling at me.

It’s tedious work. But here’s a lesson in believing: In the end, there’s always more to enjoy.

Mango #4

“What are these?” There were nasty gnashes on an otherwise beautiful fruit.

“Oh! These mangoes were too high up to reach. Have to wait for them to drop. I got to these before the birds!”

I’m not amused. You know the nice little story they tell single ladies?

‘Women are like apples on trees, the best ones are at the top. They just have to wait for the right man to come along, the one who's brave enough to climb all the way to the top because they value quality.’

So what happens if I can’t hang on?

Mango #1

I go for the biggest, most beautiful fruit. Elimination process, I tell myself, as I catch a glimpse of some shrivelled ones at the bottom of the bag.

“So do I throw the bad ones away?” I ask mom.
“Noooooo!!!” She yells, as if I’d asked if I could just slit myself with the knife. “All can eat! Just need to cut away the bad parts.”

I saw some really spotted ones down there. But she has faith I guess. That one bad mango don’t spoil the whole bunch. And that every one of them has its good.