Cutting up mangos is a pain in the neck. Everyone knows that. It’s not a particularly graceful endeavor. If you want them to come out looking like something even remotely edible, you really have to put some time into it. And even then you’re not guaranteed success.

My Cuban grandmother had perfected the art. I remember sitting atop a barstool in our kitchen, elbows digging into the cream-colored tile countertops, my tiny hands propping up my eager face as I observed her every move.

I would watch her strong hands expertly maneuver the knife, creating a smooth line from the top of the mango straight down to the bottom. She would methodically rotate it around and around, gutting the fruit, as bright orange-colored juice gently dripped from the freshly made incisions. Carefully freeing the fruit from the grip of the seed that bore it, one wedge at a time, she eventually exposed the giant pit inside. Then, her thumb lightly pressed atop the peel, she would glide the knife down, removing the speckled skin from each perfect slice.

I can still see her handing the giant pit –dripping with stringy, sweet fruit– across the tile countertop, so that I could bite off whatever was left. I’d lean over the sink and gnaw at it until the strings were stuck in my teeth and all of the good parts were gone.

Just once, when I was old enough, my grandma took the time to teach me her ways- no doubt hoping to pass on the skill of this elusive art form to her only grandchild.

Every now and again, equipped with this knowledge and a decent amount of time having passed since my last attempt, I’ll spot a good-looking mango at the store and my nostalgia gets the best of me. Occasionally the nostalgia wears off before I can get a knife into the darn thing and the mango rots in the fridge. But today, with a little extra time on my hands, I am feeling ambitious.

I start out strong, gutting the mango, just the way my grandmother taught me. I look down at my hands and I can see hers, carefully guiding each incision. But when I reach the halfway mark, I flip it over only to find that I managed to squeeze the other half of the fruit into a mangled mess.

Looking down at the pathetic scene in front of me, I imagine that my grandmother would be disappointed. I’d like to ask her where I went wrong and how in the world you are supposed to keep the other half from turning to mush in your hands. But my grandma has been gone for two years now. Even if she were still here, she had Alzheimer’s disease and I’ll be damned if the particulars of mango slicing are something that would have stuck around.

In some ways, Alzheimer’s is a bit like cutting up a mango. It takes something beautiful, colorful and full, and slowly starts to peel away at it. Some parts get bungled up, bruised, thrown out and forgotten along the way. And then at the very end, it slowly sucks all of the good parts away until all that’s left is the core with a few small shredded pieces clinging on until the bitter end. It’s not a particularly graceful endeavor.

When my grandma was in her final months, she always used to ask me two things: “Estás casadas?” (Are you married?) and “Tienes niños?” (Do you have kids?). When I would shake my head “no” to both of those inquires, she would raise her eyebrows, purse her lips, shrug her shoulders and roll her eyes away from me, as if to say “well then, I’m not sure who you are, but you certainly are of no use to me.” This was okay though, because I know that my grandma –my whole mango grandma– loved me completely.

I finish eating the ugly parts of my sloppy mango, saving just the two halfway decent slices for last. As I stare down at my bowl, another memory comes to mind: we never ate the whole thing at once. I can often recall mango slices graciously awaiting my arrival in the fridge at my grandmother’s house.

So you see now, mangos are for sharing. They aren’t apricots or plums or any other one-person fruit. Something that takes that much time and patience to perfect should be appreciated, savored and remembered. It’s true that at some point it will be gone and the sweet flavor will fade from memory. But little things like these are what keep big memories alive. And they deserve to be shared.

I decide to place my two beautiful mango wedges into the fridge for later . . . to share with my husband. Sí Abuela . . . estoy casada. (Yes, Grandma . . . I am married).

And even though I didn’t get it just right, I’d like to think that my Grandma would be proud.