Letters by Kenny Mah

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The golden brew

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December 12, 2008

Hey you,

The big afternoon chill. Arrange these small platters of sweet come-on’s, these cookies and these slivers of rich cake, chocolate that emerges, lush and enticing, from a dream, the taste of sirens. Don’t touch them yet. Don’t put anything in your mouth. The pot is waiting still. Lift it up, with one sure hand, and pour. Let it flow.

The sunlight deepens. Not sharp but full. Vigorous and mellow at the same time, you feel alive, renewed, granted a new lease on the ever-shortening hours on this earth. The smell is not a smell but a breath of life. You would sip from the golden brew.

Crackle, snap, pop. Careful. They will shatter even as you nibble. Softly won’t do. Crush them. It won’t hurt. Not one bit. Snap, crackle, pop. The pieces will fly and spray, get stuck where they shouldn’t. Ignore them. Don’t forget this taste. It’s the golden sun and the afternoon and the golden brew and me and you. It’s a bit of forever. Bite, bite, bite.

Yours always and always,

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