By Loreal Barker-Brown
The day was golden. There were honey cakes, and mead, and apricots and golden beets, and fresh baked loaves, and golden butter, buttercups and everything was golden. There were plates of gold and knives of gold and cloths of gold. The tiny snakes threading around the goblets were golden, the goblets themselves were golden, the wine was golden.
The nails of the women who served the foods were golden, the hairs of the children were golden. Curly and straight and short and long: all golden. Their tiny teeth were golden, their laughter hung in the air, it too was golden. The fish in the pond shimmered gold and the water had gold dust specks, the water itself was hard and it was also golden.
The men walking into the room wearing one shouldered garments and solemn faces and serious faces and calculating faces, their faces and their garments were golden.
The members of the audience were golden. Their eyes and cheeks were golden. Their comments, newly spoken, were golden. Their hands and playbills and wristwatches were golden. The floor was golden, the doors leading out into the streets were golden. The whole theater was golden,
for a moment and then it was gone, in a Golden Flash.