Onions

---

My mother stands in the kitchen. She has a knife in her right hand. She has an onion in her left hand. The knife slices.

Slice. Slice. Slice.

The skin of the onion crunches as the blade forces its way through. 

I stand behind her. 

And I know I stand behind her, but actually I am held in her left hand. I am an onion, and the knife crunches through my skin. 

The knife in her right hand is held in her mouth. Each word slices.

Slice. Slice. Slice. 

Slice. 

She says things to me. 

Slice.

Words, which are slices. 

Slice. 

And I am an onion, so it is my fault she is crying. She doesn’t realise, that if she was not cutting into me, perhaps she would not be crying. All she understands, is that I am making her cry. All she understands, is that she hates onions.  All she understands, is that she needs to finish the slicing.  

Every night, when I step into the house, I become an onion. Every night, she must slice the onion. 

But the thing about onions, is that the younger ones are easier to slice. They are tender, they are small. They haven’t formed their winter skins. Anything can slice through a young onion. 

But as the weather turns cold, as the season slips into winter, age changes the onions. Onions form a dry, tough skin. The onion tops stand tall, seeking any sustenance from the disappearing rays of autumn sun. Then the onion tops dry out, and the onion skin wraps itself against the onion flesh, waiting for the next spring. 

Onion skin is difficult to slice. It is dry, and tough, and if the blade is not sharp enough, it will simply slide off. 

My mother stands in the kitchen.  She has a knife in her right hand. She has an onion in her left hand. She tries to peel the onion skin off. But she must slice through it first. 

She sets the onion on the chopping board. Her hand closes in around its throat, steadying it for the first slice. 

But my eyes refuse to focus on her face. Her words can’t seem to form coherent sentences through the filters of my ears. My expression no longer seems to change. 

And she brings the knife down. But she does it improperly, full of anger. The knife slides past the skin, biting into her own flesh. She looks at the onion in rage, in fury. She thinks it’s the onion’s fault. It’s the onion’s fault for no longer being soft and white. It’s the onion’s fault that she needs to slice it. It’s the onion’s fault that her own knife has drawn her own blood.

She grew the onion. In her own backyard. She prepared it for a hard winter. Yet now, she cannot accept that it is ready for a hard winter. 

Because the onion did not grow how she wanted it too. How could anything, when you cut it apart every night? Isn’t that why you cut it apart every night?

But onions have layers. Onions can split. Onions can hide themselves within themselves. And when you cut one open. All the way open. 

You will realise, even the heart of an onion is empty.

My mother stands in the kitchen.  She has a knife in her right hand. She has my throat in her left. 

She talks, an acerbic bitterness in each word. They only way she knows how to talk to me.

I can’t understand any of her words. I can’t see the expression on her face. I’m floating, my onion head sprouting and reaching for the ceiling. I wave to the ceiling fan. I swim out of the window. I look at the stars. They are very pretty tonight. I play with them, freefalling through constellations and galaxies. Perhaps I’ll become an astrophysicist. Perhaps I’ll become stardust. 

But we all know, that I’m just an onion. 

And my mother stands in the kitchen.  She has a knife in her right hand. She has my throat in her left. 

She slices.