He came into the darkening kitchen after supper,
Drawn by a slow, steady snick. Snick. Snick.
Slower than the sonorous tick
Of the grandfather clock’s
Determined seconds pacing a long night.
He found her slicing onions,
Only the eternal light over the kitchen sink casting any glow.
There was silence between the meeting
Of knife and cutting board, long seconds apart.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“I’m slicing onions.”
“Well, I could smell that. Want some light?”
“No,” she said. “I’m fine.”
“That’s a lot of onions,” he said,
Eyeing the five pound bag in its plastic net
Resting on the counter beside her.
“Yes,” she agreed, and wiped her cheek
With the back of the wrist of the hand
That held the knife.
“Planning to cook?” he asked.
“No, I’m slicing onions.”
He heard the tears camped in her nose,
Hoped they were from the onion fumes.
He was silent through several slow slices.
“Slicing, but not cooking? That’s a lot of onions.”
“I’m slicing onions,” she repeated. “He loved onions.”
She said, “He’d eat those sweet Vidalias like an apple.”
“You told me,” he replied.
“Any sandwich was better with a slice of raw, he used to say.”
Drawn by a slow, steady snick. Snick. Snick.
Slower than the sonorous tick
Of the grandfather clock’s
Determined seconds pacing a long night.
He found her slicing onions,
Only the eternal light over the kitchen sink casting any glow.
There was silence between the meeting
Of knife and cutting board, long seconds apart.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“I’m slicing onions.”
“Well, I could smell that. Want some light?”
“No,” she said. “I’m fine.”
“That’s a lot of onions,” he said,
Eyeing the five pound bag in its plastic net
Resting on the counter beside her.
“Yes,” she agreed, and wiped her cheek
With the back of the wrist of the hand
That held the knife.
“Planning to cook?” he asked.
“No, I’m slicing onions.”
He heard the tears camped in her nose,
Hoped they were from the onion fumes.
He was silent through several slow slices.
“Slicing, but not cooking? That’s a lot of onions.”
“I’m slicing onions,” she repeated. “He loved onions.”
She said, “He’d eat those sweet Vidalias like an apple.”
“You told me,” he replied.
“Any sandwich was better with a slice of raw, he used to say.”
Her hands stilled.
She leaned on them, pressing down on the countertop, shoulders raised.
He found that made his own hands nervous.
“It’s been almost three years,” he said.
“It’s not about the onions,” she said. “It’s about the slicing.”
“Okay,” he said, quietly. “I’ll leave you to it.”
She put a fingertip to the juices, loosed on the board,
Lifted them to her tongue, closed her eyes, breathed in.
She resumed her slow slicing,
Raveled onions gathering around her.
Slice. The onions you lavished into your potato salad. Smile.
Slice. The green onions you grew in the garden, proffered like a bouquet. Smile.
Slice. The onion rings we shared at the drive-in movie theater
We found on our first trip west together, and the taste of kisses.
Another tear rolls, not caught by a wrist.
She raised her hand, instead, to sniff the fingertip juices
As if they held after-shave,
And invited the tears to fall again.
She leaned on them, pressing down on the countertop, shoulders raised.
He found that made his own hands nervous.
“It’s been almost three years,” he said.
“It’s not about the onions,” she said. “It’s about the slicing.”
“Okay,” he said, quietly. “I’ll leave you to it.”
She put a fingertip to the juices, loosed on the board,
Lifted them to her tongue, closed her eyes, breathed in.
She resumed her slow slicing,
Raveled onions gathering around her.
Slice. The onions you lavished into your potato salad. Smile.
Slice. The green onions you grew in the garden, proffered like a bouquet. Smile.
Slice. The onion rings we shared at the drive-in movie theater
We found on our first trip west together, and the taste of kisses.
Another tear rolls, not caught by a wrist.
She raised her hand, instead, to sniff the fingertip juices
As if they held after-shave,
And invited the tears to fall again.
Erin Sim
Erin Sim, 74, currently lives in Saint Paul, Minnesota, USA. She is a lifelong lover of words and the smithing of them. As a daily poet and occasional short fiction writer, she explores grief, joy, and the quotidian in ways she hopes will touch and resonate with readers. Her poem 'Promises' is included in the forthcoming Stafford Poetry Challenge 2024 Anthology.