I remember yelling, “there’s one, there’s one!” to my cousin on top of the mango tree, who would shout back, “where”. “To your left,” I would reply. This is the memory saved in the back of my head, playing every time I see a mango. The memory of me screaming at my cousin from the bottom of the tree to get me a mango. That was before my family and I moved to America. At the time, I was a five-year-old girl in Bangladesh. You can tell by now that my favorite fruit is mangoes. I love mangoes and everything containing it. Mango juice, mango bar (candy), mango chutney, you name it. There are many childhood memories that I share with this fruit. When the season for mangoes would come, every child in our village would have a mango in their hand. The bottom of mango trees would be filled with kids with bamboo sticks trying to get a mango. I, of course, would be one of them. Even though my family had our own mango tree, my cousins and I would steal mangoes from our neighbor’s tree because there were too many of us and only one mango tree. I remember my oldest cousin, tall and slender, climbing my neighbor’s wall to the roof and picking mangoes and throwing it back to us. We would laugh and play, but when our parents would ask where we got so many mangoes from, we would get in big trouble. Then we had to ask our neighbor, who was a very nice man. He would let us get as many as we want. We did not have to steal anymore. I remember the seed of the mango being my favorite part. As