Excuse (Cleaning the House After She is Gone)
by Donna Vorreyer
I lifted the wooden box from the shelf under the staircase and was not surprised that it smelled of onions. Mother chopped onions for every recipe, it seemed, tiny rectangles that clung to the other ingredients and made them sing. She wielded her knife with gusto, one neat swipe to separate the root and another to make it symmetrical, a footstool of papery layers and white flesh. Thinly slitting one side, she expertly dismissed the outer skin with a flick. Then the fingers of her left hand curled at the knuckle, blade flashing and rocking to reveal a perfect pile, square as teeth.
Having tried to replicate her recipes for years, I hoped the box would divulge some secrets. More than that, I wanted to remember those nights, the odor of onions lingering on her fingers as she smoothed my hair or tucked the blankets under my chin. I would wrinkle my nose, but she would just laugh. She knew that I didn’t mind, knew that having her near was a comfort that no smell could drive away.
She needed me, too, although she never complained - all those nights, all those meals gone cold waiting for my father. She never complained about her own burning eyes, tears on her cheeks. She didn’t mind. She knew the truth, one I understood even then. If you are always chopping onions, you can cry and cry and cry, and no one will ever ask you what is wrong.
by Donna Vorreyer
I lifted the wooden box from the shelf under the staircase and was not surprised that it smelled of onions. Mother chopped onions for every recipe, it seemed, tiny rectangles that clung to the other ingredients and made them sing. She wielded her knife with gusto, one neat swipe to separate the root and another to make it symmetrical, a footstool of papery layers and white flesh. Thinly slitting one side, she expertly dismissed the outer skin with a flick. Then the fingers of her left hand curled at the knuckle, blade flashing and rocking to reveal a perfect pile, square as teeth.
Having tried to replicate her recipes for years, I hoped the box would divulge some secrets. More than that, I wanted to remember those nights, the odor of onions lingering on her fingers as she smoothed my hair or tucked the blankets under my chin. I would wrinkle my nose, but she would just laugh. She knew that I didn’t mind, knew that having her near was a comfort that no smell could drive away.
She needed me, too, although she never complained - all those nights, all those meals gone cold waiting for my father. She never complained about her own burning eyes, tears on her cheeks. She didn’t mind. She knew the truth, one I understood even then. If you are always chopping onions, you can cry and cry and cry, and no one will ever ask you what is wrong.
