Peeling Onions. Slicing them.

If you ask me 

"How do you spend your days?"

I would say,

"Peeling onions Slicing them."

And weeping  

depending on which layer

I was revealing.

Dry eyes most often

 in  the outer layers of

automatic busyness

taking out the re-cycling

bins on  the right day,

getting the washing dry,

organising 

dental and hair appointments.

But if I cut closer to the centre

where I live in the 

 sharp juice of

the layers of

unanswered questions,

of memories,

of raw loss,

in the draught of 

 aloneness,

in the exposed

harsh light of

HE IS GONE,

then time stands still.

My eyes sting,

and

 I can't remember what recipe 

I was following

before I started

chopping the 

onions.