Preparing Sunday's Roast:

How many onions have I cut up since I chose this life?
How many times have I felt the sting in my eyes until they burn wet?
How many more will I prepare?
How many meals will come from my hands?

I realize I have no way of guessing.

I slice, turn the gathered layers, and chop. Redolence expands throughout the room. A meal is coming.
My hands, the onions- both come from the same place, and I wonder how I can make my skin shine like sunrise and earth turned into silk paper.

(This is what I’m thinking about.)

Lola

How many dinners did she prepare? I know her eyes burned. I saw it happen.
And what about her mother?
Do my hands look like hers?
Were they this dry in the winter? Surely they were cold.

Mary

Always, a meal was coming.
I remember her hands were soft.
I know her hands were cold in winter. I saw it happen.
She must have cut into so many onions, maybe.

I have no way of guessing.

Taking another and peeling the gold leafing, I think to myself once again –
It’s worth the sting.

All of it.