Haw Flakes

I was packing up my confectionery cabinet one fine day when I came across this packet of unopened haw flakes. A small packet of nine individually reddish paper-wrapped pieces with those familiar Chinese characters printed on each of them.

I snipped the package open with my scissors and a piece fell onto the table. I picked it up, tore the paper open, and took the haw flakes out. Slice by slice.

I put the first into my mouth. I felt it melting on the tip of my tongue. It broke. Then I went ahead and chewed another. The sound of crumbling sugar rang in my head as the sweetness of the flakes sipped into the end of my throat. I chewed again.

Irresistible.

I stared at the remains of the paper packet on the tabletop. And stared at the remaining eight that was tugging together intendedly. I looked at the paper shreds again.

Then, I promptly sweep them up in my hand and crushed them crumpled, throwing them into the dustbin. I opened the fridge and kept the other eight into a corner of the chiller compartment.

I opened my cabinet again. This time, I took out my favourite bag of sour gummy bears and savoured every bite of them in front of my laptop, while mourning for the loss of the world largest gummy bear.