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Even though the sun is very near the edge of the world, making all preparations for presenting itself to the new day, the darkness proves the tenacity of its jealousy at 6:05 AM. “Don’t forget about me,” it prods by way of a small thing, a reminder to an already exhausted clergyman that his children might not be all that interested in succeeding in life.

The noonday sun is brightly beaming, and still the darkness hovers. It affronts as a napkin dispenser stuffed beyond capacity. Like a chittering raccoon clawing aggressively for an object just out of reach, the clergyman wrestles in desperation for something to cleanse his digits of the meal’s debris. But it isn’t to be. The darkness’ grip is robust.

And so the clergyman surrenders, choosing instead to be as a raccoon in a birdbath, sloshing his fingers into his water glass before drying them on his pants. As he departs, perhaps he finishes the task using the coat of an unsuspecting customer in the booth nearest to the cash register.

Perhaps he does this.

Back in his office, the afternoon sun is cascading through the blinds of his window. Still, the darkness labors to pin him in a strange conversation with a visiting pastor who, having used his host’s personal bathroom, is wondering why he keeps a can opener near the toilet. Between them is the momentary insinuation of a struggle with some sort of biological condition that only such a device can relieve.

Eventually he arrives home. The sun has long since offered its goodbyes through a blanket of oncoming clouds. The darkness resumes a fuller reign, and with that, is less interested in the clergyman.

But the clergyman has become interested in the darkness, at least a more fitting lightlessness at the end of a day’s collections of minor irritations. The Basil Hayden’s Dark Rye edition is the bidder.

“Dark and Rich” are its adorning words. And rightly so. The deeply rubied whiskey smells of sun-dried cranberries, cinnamon, and rye.

A sip and savor introduces the port noted on the label while bringing along a merger of the nose’s cinnamon and something that reminds of canned beets. Strangely, it isn’t as forbidding as it sounds. It’s delicious, in fact.

The finish is nearly long with a slight burn, but the heat comes from the spices and not the alcohol. As it fades, it reminds once again of the port and rye, and then slips in a dash of burnt sugar.

I say, if darkness is to reside among us, let it be by this whiskey. The price of the edition—around $45—affirms its accessibility and place in anyone’s cabinet of delights.

And just for the record, the can opener in my bathroom has nothing to do with my innards. I keep it there because the bathroom also serves as a mini-kitchen. I suppose if I were the casual observer, I’d be wondering more so about the guitar in the corner and how much time the clergyman spends in his bathroom.