Onion filled jar resting on the window ledge.
Mom needs a butter knife to wedge the lid
loose. With the hiss of the seal, an aroma
floods the vastness of the space. Silver spoon
scoops the potent cure and delivers it to my
tongue. Between spice swirls, the sweet flavor
of sugar dances in my mouth. She always
knows ways to heal my ails, and soon my fever
drops.
How I yearn for her motherly touch and home
brewed remedies. Alas I left her care to travel
north. Gasping for air, I dream of sweet onions.
1 comment:
Sorry, however I believe that Onions are the Devils fruit.
There are those that believe that it was an apple that grew in the garden of Eden, and that Eve saw it was good and ate, however, this is not true. It was an onion. And she took the onion and gave it to her husband and he took the onion and ate it.
Well, truth be told, Onions grow in the ground, not on trees, but it makes for a good story and excuses me from liking onions.
Craig
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