Little onion sits on the counter, inconspicuous in papery skin and bits of dirt. Unfortunately it has a role to play and it’s not a minor one. The soup pot is waiting. I help it off with its brittle dirty coat to expose its purple undershirt, all shiny and clean. Then, I take a deep breath and lop off its stem-head and root. I say my brief “sorry” but the soup can’t wait. The knife begins its wicked dance evoking outrage burning my eyes. In stinging tears the slices swim. The knife slips and nicks my thumb. Revenge.
A small stone in River of Stones entry.