Before the Flame Dies

A stall in a Singaporean coffeeshop, stirred by the morning bustle.

The tau kwa pau (beancurd bun) stall comes to life.

The bun itself —

A tradition that bides time.

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An orange spark lights

Beancurd stirs with a sizzle

Warm scent of childhood

Crooks its fingers

To the mouths that wait

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Beancurd bun aglow

A golden halo enwraps

The flame roars

Licks the fingers that reach

Then stills.

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It quiets.

Red embers amber.

Beancurd’s scent fades

Reaching fingers withdraw

With time.

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The fire dies.

Fried beancurd bun’s scent

Forever in the air

For the fingers that will not

Get to reach.

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Taw Kwa Pau, fried to perfection and filled with minced pork, sliced chili and a complimentary egg, was commonly served in coffee shops and hawker centres in Singapore a few decades ago.

A tradition of old, one my grandma held on to.

The flame that prepares it still burns-

If only in the heart.

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