Today I will learn to peel the onion.
I’ve avoided onions nearly all of my life.
When I smell one, I cry.
So, why bother?
But, now it’s my turn to learn.
I gingerly slice into the crisp, brown coat.
It’s brittle surface shatters at first contact.
It’s papery shell fissions into hard, broken fragments,
And balks at leaving in one wholesome piece,
Requiring steady, tedious effort
To peel tiny edges off,
One by one, piece by piece
Ah, the first layer is done!
The wonder of it – there is still more!
My blade cautiously slides into the next.
This layer is soft and expressive,
Moisture seeps from its broken edges
And, in involuntary harmony,
My eyes join in.
Is there yet another layer?
I gently edge my knife into the next
And more tears arise.
Layer after layer,
Drop after drop,
Until, eventually, I realize
There is no shortage of layers,
No shortage of tears.
I wonder, “Will it ever finish?”
Someday . . .
I will sauté those onions
At a tender heat
Until they caramelize
Into honeyed sweetness.
And, then . . .
I will eat them.
David Hanig 