A BOX OF MANGOES sits cradled in my left arm. I find myself rocking it, the way I did my daughter and my son when they were babies. It is my habit with precious things. It’s 2023, maybe June, maybe July; summer, I’m sure, because there are mangoes. I’m in line at the post office in Fort Myers, Florida, my hometown. The box I’m holding is bound for my friend Minda, a fellow writer who lives in mangoless Kentucky. Minda blurbed my debut book, The Mango Tree. I’m thanking her the best way I know how.