ONIONS

Cutting the onions, shredding the potatoes –
That is my memory for today.
The oil in the pan, the paprika,
The low/medium flame
And finally the cheese melting over it all.
We ate it at that little table that could fold up into the wall
And she kept complementing me
Because she had no idea I could cook anything.

It was a small moment that plays now in my mind –
She picked up her empty plate and when she stood up
I pulled her body close to mine
And I kissed her deeply and fully
While the whole apartment smelled like onions
And so did our mingling breath

And now
I scrub and scrub and I launder
But the smell of onions remains
On my fingers, on my clothes –

The taste of onions now old and sour in my mouth
While pushing every other smell from my nose.