Onions

You’re standing in the kitchen, now
slicing open an onion
While the pot sizzles out a cry of anticipation
and the window is open, letting in sunshine that illuminates the atmosphere of the kitchen;
Your hands, meticulously cutting, quickly but ever precisely on the chopping board

I’m sitting on the kitchen table, looking at you
much as I do most evenings that I am home
but there’s something about tonight that is different.

Perhaps it’s the way you’re cutting up that onion
I think it’s the first time in a while I really take to noticing your hands
They’re manicured and lightly polished but what strikes me is the wrinkles
veins protruding, as if they want to escape the frailty of your body
The sunshine is showing me the bald spot on the top of your head
and the smile wrinkles on your face
Your foot in a medical boot, because it gives you trouble now

A tear makes its way to the bottom corner of my eyelid
and with the excuse that I want to help you cook I get up, place my head on your chest, listen to your heartbeat, and close my eyes
It sounds the same, at least I think it does, from the number of times I have done this before
I ligt tip, pissh, tip, with she occasional ssssh background sound of your heart murmur
But the skin of your chest on the outer corners of my ear feels different somehow, this time
It is as if your body knows what I am thinking
I let out a tear and wipe it away just as quickly so you won’t notice
And as the last remnants of the sun make their way into our kitchen
We stand, chopping onions together
Like you taught me.