Francisco slowly walked up her long, long walkway and hesitantly knocked on her door. “What do you want?” she asked, looking crabbier than ever. “I thought maybe you’d like some company—and a mango.” Francisco offered her the fruit. “It probably has bees swarming around it!” “Tía, there aren’t any bees, and besides, no hay mal que por bien no venga. The bees make the fruit sweet!” “Where did you learn that?” she asked, her face softening just the tiniest bit. “From my dad,” Francisco said. “I used to say that to him when he was your age,” she said. “I also told him, dime con quien andas y te diré quien eres. ” “What does that mean?” he asked. “Tell me with whom you walk, and I’ll tell you who you are.” Francisco again held the mango out to her. “Would you like one of my mangos?” “You worked hard for that mango,” she said, and didn’t sound so crabby after all.
“I have plenty. This one is for you.” He gave her the fruit. She turned around, went indoors, and gently closed the door.
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