My mother keeps garlic in the kitchen.
The bulbs at the bottom of their worn wicker basket collapse in on themselves in despair of being minced. They lend their passionate essence to dreams and become hollow shells devoid of potent black magic.
I cry with the onions.
If garlic is queen-mother to sugar, onions crown the princes of salinity with open hearts and an ancient invitation to grieve.
I am a wellspring of sorrow. My sisters scalp each other to the chimes of the clock announcing midday. Their hair regrows down to their knees in the night. Luscious black locks. Goddesses.
Sitting in the scented moonlight my toes tremble. The steam that curls above artistic plates is the same clarity that haloes each salt-grain star.
I cry with the onions.
I do not feel the sting of their smell. The bites they leave in my eyes become flecks of gold among my blue irises. The tears are mine. Mine alone. Over the wooden countertop, where red and white onions have bled and garlic has stained, I weep openly and avoid inquiry.
It is refreshing and revitalizing. My tears are for myself, as is the selfish experience of eating. I eat of the same food as my family, but perhaps my mouthfuls taste saltier, perhaps they know a different kind of happiness.
I cry with the onions.