by Yash Seyedbagheri
Dad’s been fired from teaching again. He’s gone to drink. My older sister Nancy and I share an onion for dinner.
I’m inclined to stab it with a knife. But Nan peels layer after layer with tenderness.
“This way, it looks heartier,” she says. “It lasts longer.”
We eat thin layers, relishing the crunch and rawness. I even pile pieces onto Saltines and potato chips.
Gourmet dining, Nan jokes.
We try not to think of the onion stripped. The bills piling. We try not to conjure Dad returning.
We block slurred regret, promises of more understanding jobs.
Tonight, we’re fine diners.