Close your eyes and imagine yourself in the islands. Warm breezes coming off the water, the sun making grains of white sand sparkle as though it's full of tiny diamonds, and tall palm trees swaying, with their large leaves hissing in the wind. This is where I grew up. And this is where I learned to love. My mother died when I was young. I didn't know the full story of what had happened until I was older. My Papi raised me, allowing me to enjoy all the islands have to offer. Besides my Papi, I had two great loves, both island boys struggling to grow into men. When I found myself pregnant, I ran after having the baby, leaving her with one of the men. New York was my destination where I earned a good living. But I missed the islands, the blue waters, the warmth of the air and the people. New York was so different. I missed the men and, most of all, my daughter. I made my way back to the islands to make things right with my family, only to find that my daughter had also escaped to New York. This is my story. The girl my Papi called mango.
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