The Mango's Already Slicedស្វាយកាត់រួចហើយ

Late at night I sit studying alone. One small lamp, books all over the table. I hear Pa's footsteps. He sets down a plate of mango and walks away without a word. The mango's sliced neatly, every seed removed. Pa never once said "I love you." The mango's already sliced. That was Pa's way of saying it. He didn't know how to say the words, he only knew how to slice mango. Love on a plate, every night. When I grew up, I was so angry at him. Other dads hug, other dads say "I love you," but mine stayed silent. I asked, "Pa, do you love me?" He only said, "Eat your mango," and turned away. I didn't understand why he was like that. The mango was sweet, but my heart was sour. The day I left home for school, my first night studying alone like always. At 11 o'clock I turned to look at the door. No footsteps, no plate of mango. And I cried. The mango's already sliced. Now I understand, Pa. Now Pa is old, his hands tremble. The knife slips, the mango rolls across the table. I gently take the knife from his hand. Now it's my turn. My first mango comes out crooked, nothing like the way he cuts it. Pa laughs, and I laugh too. Crying and laughing, the two of us, father and daughter. The mango's sliced, Pa. Eat, Pa, eat. I can say it now: Pa, I love you. And he smiled, like he wanted to say the same. (Eat, my child...) Eat, Pa... Music created with AI tools. Concept, lyrics, and story by Somleng Studio.