Our first summer together: the avocado tree in my backyard bowed its head under the weight of 
fruit so plump it would burst under the delicate pressure of your painted fingernails. The whole 
neighborhood must have heard us laughing — those little green planets in our hands! — 
because soon enough, the local mayas were singing at our doorstep, little wicker baskets in their 
wings. And even the fruit bats joined in, despite the heat and the glaring midday sun. And so 
did a flock of lost pigeons, flying in from God knows where. And who could possibly finish all 
this food on their own — who could possibly turn away such joyous company? We passed 
around bowls of condensed milk and ice, or else, emptied bag after bag of corn chips. Next year, 
we should invite your family. We’ll have atis then, from our tree. Calamansi and mango on the 
streets, and we can grab as many as we can carry.  Coconuts and macopa, too, if my lola’s garden 
is feeling generous — sorry, I forget myself.
                                           			        In a month, I’ll be following those lost pigeons to 
New York, my suitcase heavy with avocado pits that will die reaching for the water of the 
Hudson River. Nature knows not to wait on me, but they may have forgotten to tell you — not 
that you would have listened, even as the morning sunlight grows cooler then cold then warm 
once more. Find shade, love. The city that never sleeps watches the moon hanging ripe overhead 
with arms outstretched. I will pluck it from its star-branches, peel its sugar-marked skin, cut it 
into crescents, and tie your half of this bounty to a passing comet. With a harvest like this, we’ll 
be eating well and sweet until the day my avocado tree bears fruit again.