They go surprisingly well with Mango. More than that, they hold their own, they’re an orange, essentially, though miniature, but hold unique taste beyond their size. I prefer them a normal orange almost any day, really.

Such things seem so small, so easily taken for granted. What could I say to convince you? It’s not the orange I speak of in particular . . . no, it’s more a constant reference to all things so slight, at first glance, that they are all too quickly overlooked.

There was once . . . a girl. Why a girl? Why not? It seemed to fit. Did you know, she found a pinecone in the forest one day? It held nothing special, in and of itself, for it was not magical nor particularly magnificent. Such a silly thing, really, was this pinecone that, at first, she simply kicked it.

This continued, as she walked through the forest, tapping the fallen thing, with the tip of her shoe, over and over – keeping it with her as she walked, but not on her. No, the pinecone need stay on the ground, and only knew the attentions of her foot, and that was enough. This, of course, had to end, at some point. The girl grew tired of the game, and eventually left the pinecone and the forest behind.

The girl grew to a woman; she found love, married and had children. Marriage cultivated her love at first, but soon turned sour. Soon it only brought her misery, misery and pain. The children brought her joy, and allowed the marriage to last, even though she found it should have ended, near as soon as it had begun.

The children grew, they went to school, grew some more and went to college, found love of their own. They slowly became more and more distant, but the woman was not sad. She loved her children, and found solace in knowing they seemed to have learned from her mistakes.

The man she’d found love with left her, found another, younger, and better – by his assessment – than she. Without the children, he saw no point in tolerating him. All this happened, quite suddenly, but the woman was not sad, his remarks caused her no harm. The woman found solace in being alone, finally, after so many years of misery, somehow it was a relief.

Many years later, still alone, and so slow to make friends that many moved on, or died, before they ever truly came to know her, the woman found herself walking. The woman walked, and walked . . . and walked some more. Soon the woman was lost, finding herself alone amongst great trees, yet the place somehow felt familiar. Old as she was now, her legs weary and tired, she found a place to sit, against a pine tree.

That one, single thing, a pine tree in the midst of the forest, offered her greater comfort and relief . . . than anything had in years. The woman rested her head back, against the pine tree, and closed her eyes. The woman took a deep breath, and slowly let it out.

She never opened her eyes again, after that, and never breathed another breath. Peaceful in her last moment. And what kept her company, in that last moment? The fruit of a thing grown strong in its neglect, patiently waiting . . . so many years . . . for her return.