The
smell is overwhelming.
Pungent sting,
sucked up into my sockets. The skin around my eyes folds, wrinkles
in protest. An itch, a burn. Wincing, I cut deeper, releasing another
wave.
Water will stop
this, running water, or a deep chill down to the core.
To slice an onion
is to cut through crispness, firm but easily yielded to a thin metal
edge.
The sound is
wet, the smell as dense as the layers packed one over another, skin
wrapped around skin, wrapping around itself.
Layers whorled
into a fingerprint.
Onion gas is
an irritant. My eyes tear, my hands rub at them and irritate them
even more with onion juice.
This is a very
real struggle: I fight back tears as if afraid of ridicule. I do not
want to be exposed. Eventually, I give in as crying goes along with
onion cutting.
Being in the
presence of onions is cleansing. The eyes are washed, the urge to
fight back tears exposed as an act of the mind. The body has its own
response. Onion cutting is an act of the humble.
I do not easily
accept this fact.
Once I give over
to the tears of onion cutting, I created a pathway for other tears.
I cut cleanly through the layers and slice open the core.
--
Theresa Sofianos
