"Burnt Sugar" by Amani Shroff

Photo by Олег Жилко on Unsplash

I remember wanting to tell you that burnt sugar is waves,

to wash over you, but not swallow you. it’s quicksand,

take a misstep, and you sink. it’s a cigarette that you let burn

in between your teeth, until you burn. and how a young child

holds out their hand for money, until it’s snatched

right from their fingers.

you have to care,

but not care too much. you have to work,

but not too much. you have to learn,

but not too much. you have to breathe,

but not too much. not until it’s snatched from you.

my mother’s hands were old parchment as she watched the stove

smoke and rattle and burn. the smoke coming from the pot

is walking on an endless hike only to see it end with a cliff leading

to the abyss. our kitchen is a garden with blooming flowers all

with different scents. smoke swirls like children running around on a

too-perfect day, their laughter echoing and running together in slurs.

a deep rich brown caramelized substance grows in my mother pot,

as she continues to stir. she looks to make sure I am not around,

because she says it will hurt me. but I love watching her make it.

i love the way the darkness oozes on all sides, transforming into

something new. like a phoenix.

so, i hide under our scratched kitchen cabinets. she adds the boiling

water and steps back. dark matter rises from the pot as it splashes.

the fire is on high, surrounding and tempting the pot. the dark,

sticky substances leap from the pot, making skeletons that all parade

in the air. i can't seem to remember what they want from me. i have

dreams of sailing on a black, oily sea with these shapes chasing me.

i sail in loneliness, dodging the bodies dropping on all sides

of me, until I reach the end of the universe. the place where all

things come to an end. the sea of shadows stop, and the shapes

stop chasing me. i am alone at the edge of the world, letting the

waves determine the beats of my heart.

i want to remember how burnt sugar smells. it is bitter,

like how you would imagine death to smell. or cotton candy that has

been dipped in overly roasted coffee. it's about mastering the art

of existing, but not going far enough to be living. my mom quickly turns

the gas off when it is ready.

she sighs a breath of relief.

i remember wanting to tell you there is a very slim margin of time where

the burnt sugar is at the right stage. to miss the margin of time would

burn the sugar. each of our lives are as short as the margin before we

make the fall off the cliff as well. i remember wanting to tell you burnt

sugar becomes ashes if it burns too long.

Amani Shroff is 14 years old. She lives in Redwood City, California, and is a freshman at Carlmont High School. Her passion for writing began when, at age seven, her father bought her a poetry book. The book, now marked with favorite poems, lit a fire that has grown through the years. Amani started doing yoga in middle school for relaxation and exercise; she enjoys capturing moments with her polaroid and Canon cameras. About her poem, “I always watched my mother cook on our gas stove. She was fearless with the flames, and once even put out a small flame by hand. In my imagination the flames held creatures and shapes that represented the fragility of life even in the smallest moment.”