The mangos this year are fragrant and heavy and plentiful. It starts with one. Then you have three or four on your kitchen counter, and then, within a week, you are sneaking out in the dead of night to leave them on your neighbor's front steps. I have four trees, and they are of three varieties. The Smithfels are an Asian varietal, huge and paisley-shaped. Their flesh is so soft, you can eat them with a spoon. They are slightly redolent of pineapple, and the color of their pulp is paler than the deep orange of the Haydens. They are sort of rare, I'm told. I just know that they are delicious.
In this sub-tropical town, at this time of year, there is no better way to spread joy to strangers than to hand out mangos. Today I had a bag full of Haydens and Smithfields from my yard, and I was a veritable Johnny Mangoseed as I handed them out to random folks I passed on my way to work.

Three burly Hispanic Wackenhut guards at the train station. The old-school Black gentleman who wears a red silk rose in his uniform pocket every day and drives the Metrorail.

I debated about going up to the woman engaged in a loud diatribe at the other end of the train, but I couldn't determine if she was engaged in a dialogue or a monologue and decided that discretion would be the better part of Valerie, and so did not share with her.

The old blind beggar was not at his usual station, but he has received my fruity largesse on other occasions.

I still have three, but the day isn't over yet.