Under the mulberry tree

The mulberry tree in Mr. Rodrigo’s garden was enormous. It was the only one in the neighborhood and stood right in the middle of a flowerless garden. Every July, huge, plump mulberries inundated its branches. The kind you don’t see in supermarkets. Pedro wanted me to see it, so that afternoon he grabbed the end of my white dress and pulled me towards the gate. Mr. Rodrigo was on holidays somewhere in southern Spain, so the coast was clear. I was new in the neighborhood and impressing me was mandatory. As Pedro climbed onto a lower branch and up unto a higher one, eating the succulent fruits as he went along, I stood below, watching him in awe. “Maria, looka this one!” he shouted. “This a one is fo you!” And like a little chimpanzee, he quickly swiveled down the tree and stood with his nose nearly touching mine. “Eat it”, he said. Between his fingers was the biggest mulberry I had ever seen. I looked at his stained red mouth, “C’mon, eat it”, he insisted, gently parting my lips with the warm berry. “Good, uh?” It was the perfect combination of sweet and sour. “I geta more,” he whispered. I smiled. The liquid started trickling towards my chin. “I can’t get dirty, Mamá will be angry.” Pedro’s hot breath touched my nose; his eyes scanned my face, suddenly stopping at my mouth. “Don’t wanna your mamá get angry,” he said, and wiped the excessive nectar with his kisses.