When the Mangoes Ripen

In May, the world softens.
The air shifts, and even the trees seem to sigh — a warm, heavy breath after months of holding still.

Where I’m from, May meant the mango trees finally gave up their treasures. The purple-skinned ones, the tiny yellow ones with juice that slipped down your elbows, the heavy green ones you needed both hands to carry. It wasn’t a season we marked on a calendar. You just knew. One morning you would wake up and the ground beneath the trees would be littered in gold.

There’s a tenderness to May that I still feel now, living far from the islands. It’s a month stitched with memory and motion — the beginning of things and the sweet ending of others. As a teacher, May hums with the last notes of a school year. As a writer, it pulls me toward stories not yet told.

Sometimes, I think about how stories ripen the same way fruit does. Quietly. Slowly. Until one day, they’re too full to stay hidden. You reach up — and there it is. A piece of yourself, ready to be shared.

This May, I'm stepping into that moment.
My newest novel-in-verse, Where the Guava Tree Stands, is only a few weeks old — a story about home, belonging, and the heartache of starting over. If you haven't yet discovered Neither Out Far Nor In Deep, my coming-of-age novel set between Florida and St. Kitts, there's still time: for a limited time, you can visit the Giveaway Section and grab a free audiobook code while supplies last. And soon, Sweet Like Sugar Cane — a heartfelt prequel — will join the family of stories on June 1.

If you love books about finding your way, crossing oceans (real or imagined), or just want to lose yourself in a good story this May, I hope you'll check them out.

I believe stories, like mangoes, find us when we're ready.
Maybe this season is yours.

🌿 What story, memory, or moment reminds you of May? I'd love to hear in the comments.

With gratitude,
Leah T. Williams
@kittiwriter1
🌴 Caribbean stories. Young voices. Real life.