Prior to this trip to South Cotabato, I was starting to think that marang didn’t like me. At all.
Three times I had been to Davao City. Three times I bought a whole marang fruit. Three times I failed to have a taste of it. Like most of my romantic relationships, the marang spoiled even before I could dig into the juicy part. I had never tasted it for I would always take the fruit to Manila and wait for it to ripen. It would then sit on the dining table until it rot under my nose.
So I gave up on it, and buried the thought of it gracing my palate in the deepest recesses of my unconscious.