By Asia
The gas is on, the oil is bubbling in the pot.
She is standing in the kitchen, the food is organized in small plates on the marble desk.
The onion is all that’s left.
How she hates to cut onion.
When she was cooking with her mother, her mother used to do it.
It always seemed so dirty to her.
Now, mom is not here.
He’ll be back soon, and the food is not ready yet.
She takes the onion in her hands and check it from every angle.
Why did she had to make meatloaf fried with onion?
She takes a knife and cut the ends under the tap.
Then she takes off the brown shell.
There is wonder in her eyes as she looks at the white vegetable in her hands.
She never saw it like that.
So pure, white, just beautiful.
The oil keeps bubbling and she keeps looking at the onion.
Without thinking she peels the rind.
Still white, still whole and pure.
She keeps peeling, with every rind that falls a dream falls with a tear.
And she keeps peeling...
The tears are washing her eyes, the hands are shaking, the heart is aching.
It is so small now
She doesn’t know if it’s the onion or her life that are slipping between her fingers.
She hears him park the car outside.
It’s time to take yourself in the hands.
She returns her gaze to the onion and pale.
Nothing left.
The knife is making noise when it hits the floor.
The key is in the door.
The door is opening and he hang his coat on the hook.
"what’s for dinner?"
she wipes her face and throws the rinds to the pot.
Life goes on...