The sun’s rays danced, cascading through the solitary clouds as mountains loomed in the distance—sentinels of Mother Nature, standing watch over Panama. Their shadows stretched long, offering the denizens below a fleeting escape from the day’s humid heat. Tropical trees swayed with a soul-touching elegance, their leaves whispering with the graceful breeze. And beyond them, the ocean stretched infinitely, a celestial charmer of boundless wonder, calling to those who dared to dream.
In May of 1975, in Panama, Central America, my mother, Dafne García, had just turned seven. Her curls, kissed by the sun, framed a face that held a purity as vast as the heavens. Her eyes spoke of trust, of a future waiting to be embraced, and of solace in uncertain moments. When she smiled, it was like a sunrise—warm, radiant, and full of promise.
On this blissful day, she played in their modest backyard, laughter spilling into the air as she ran barefoot across the soft grass. At her side was Eugene, her beloved chicken, who flapped his wings in confused delight, his occasional chirps breaking the afternoon’s tranquility. His little legs worked frantically to keep up, his devotion to her unquestioned.”Come on, Eugene! Come on!” she cheered, her voice as light as the breeze.
They raced down the worn concrete driveway, their world a pocket of joy untouched by time. Perched high in the branches of a ceiba tree, a harpy eagle watched them—a silent, unseen guardian. She was no threat, only an observer, her piercing gaze taking in the scene with quiet majesty. Around them, nature hummed in a symphony of life—birds sang their timeless songs, insects chattered in hidden corners, and a rabbit scurried through the safety of the yard’s fence, vanishing beneath the bushes.When their chase reached its playful end, Dafne tumbled onto the grass, letting out a breathless giggle as she pulled Eugene into her arms. He nestled against her, his small body warm against her chest. They did not speak the same language, but they understood each other in a way words could never capture.”
Let’s go inside, Eugene. I’m hungry.”With practiced ease, she tucked the chicken under her arm and made her way into the house.Their home was humble but full of love. Though money was tight and uncertainty often loomed over their heads, they never let hardship steal their gratitude. Toys were a rarity, and new clothes came only when necessary, but they found magic in the ordinary, beauty in what others overlooked.
Dafne had four siblings—her eldest sister, Sarah, who always carried a knowing smirk, the mischievous Bennie and Mirna, and her younger brother, Pablo, who trailed behind her more often than not. Their father was a man of quiet strength, one who did what needed to be done without complaint, while their mother was a pillar of warmth, nurturing with wisdom steeped in tradition. Together, they worked tirelessly, running a small grocery store and tending to their livestock, ensuring their children had a better life than they had known.
Dafne found her father in the kitchen, his weathered hands sorting through produce from the morning’s work. The scent of ripe fruit filled the air, blending with the warmth of the sun spilling through the open window. She tugged on his pant leg, looking up at him with expectant eyes.”
Papa, can I have a mango?”He glanced down, a soft smile already forming—the kind of smile a father reserves for a child who holds his heart in their tiny hands.
“Little one,” he sighed playfully, shaking his head. “You’re going to get sick… or worse, turn into a mango yourself if you keep eating them so much.”
Dafne stomped her foot lightly, not in anger, but in eager determination. “Eugene and I love mango, Papa!”
Her father let out a reserved chuckle, the amusement in his eyes betraying his feigned reluctance.
“I know you do.”
Dafne’s lips stretched into a grin so wide it rivaled the morning sun. “I’ll trade you my dimple for a mango, Papa.”
At that, his smile grew even brighter. He bent down, scooping her up with ease, holding her at eye level.
“Is that right?” he mused, feigning contemplation. “Sounds like a fair trade, my child. Let’s get you two some mangoes.”
Laughter filled the small kitchen, wrapping the moment in a warmth that only love could weave.
And so, they were blessed with more mangoes. Her father made the decision to let Dafne keep her dimple.
He gave his love in the most precious way possible—not just in the fruit he shared, but in the small, everyday moments that shaped the foundation of her world. Day by day, he tended to his family like a garden, nourishing them not just with food, but with his time, his wisdom, and his unwavering presence. Like flowers reaching for the sun, he made sure they blossomed, ensuring they had everything they needed to grow, to flourish, and to one day pass on the gift of love to their own children.
Even decades later, my mother never lost her love for mangoes. Every time she cut into one, that same bright smile would appear, as if she were seven years old again, barefoot in the backyard, the sun painting gold into her curls.
Maybe mangoes were never just fruit to her.
Maybe, in some way, they were a piece of home.
A piece of love.
A piece of him.
The Cosmics 