My father is that lone mango, heavy with the ripeness of age, but heavy and alone. Born of its own heavy seed. I write his story like a guilty disciple, forced to witness and participate in his flight from that origin land. Dried-up dirt settles upon his recent tracks, concealing the names of brothers, sisters, cousins, aunts. I have taken the earth as my given name, the earth and its many paths.
None lead back to the same place.
Still, I am his daughter. An area in Southern China surrounding the city of Canton.