Onions

Onions *

Summer 2011 We read T.S. Eliot poems in the Minnesota airport; the sound of the words soothed us as we forgot which time zone we were in. I swore the North Pacific air had settled into the blue fibers of my flowered summer dress; I swore against my heavy eyelids and dry lips, wanderlust had changed us forever.

Autumn 1999 Our first bicycles without training wheels. I lost you. I pedaled harder, my eyes trained on dirt and pebbles; I found you with my front tire as you found me likewise. We fell, tangled together, bursting into tears and blaming each other. Mom came running.

Winter 2008 Christmas eve, I threw flour in your face; the kitchen became a dusty war zone. Our power struggle echoed throughout the house as flour dulled every surface. The cookies baked to a burnt brown crisp.

Autumn 2011 We fell into winding debates, convening after classes from opposite sides of campus, drinking black coffee, reveling in it's rich bitterness, as the late afternoon sunshine poured into the kitchen; my favorite color yellow.

Summer 2005 We tried to convince the check-out lady at the Shell station we weren't related. She refused to believe us.

Autumn 2006 You lay underneath the dining room table, stifling the tiny whistle of your breath, waiting. You reached out and grabbed my foot, a snake going in for the kill; I shrieked so loud, Grandma Summers probably rolled over in her grave.

Spring 2011 I broke up with my boyfriend; I needed soft spoken words of wisdom. You compared us to ice cream, I was rainbow sherbert and he was vanilla . . . Plain old vanilla, it just didn't work.

Autumn 2009 You called that anonymous woman sir, she was bundled up so well against the cold, her scarf shielded her mouth and nose; her hat settled over her eyebrows. I collapsed, laughing, onto the soft greens of the golf course.

Winter 1997 I assured you that grinding your teeth would cause them to shatter and sprinkle from your mouth like confetti from a burst balloon. You told mom; I swore I'd seen it on T.V.

Autumn 2011 You screamed, with your arm in the kitchen cupboard, your features shifting from horror to awe; you began to laugh, whirling around to reveal the onion that sprouted in the dark, green life burst from it, proudly reaching toward the ceiling.

Summer 2011 You were chased by a speedo-clad dude down Main Street. Why wasn't I with you?

Winter 2010 We dressed elegantly in black. The polished poise of your shoulders underneath your shawl, the paused set of your lipstick stained lips, the shine of your eye shadow, all matched mine; we told everyone it was “Dress Like You're Going to a Funeral” Wednesday.

Summer 1992 The ultrasound photo of you hitting me in the head, mom said she wondered if we'd get a long.

(*with thanks to Deborah Harding)