chopping onions

i will never forget our first kiss.  she ran down the stairs afterwards and all i could think of was her coming back up the stairs.  we fell in love.  it was love full of drunken dreams and misunderstood desires.  a love conjured on dance floors and porches.
the moment i knew i was in love with her was one afternoon, in my kitchen.  she had a towel over her shoulder.  she was dicing onions.  her knife was a blur and the perfect cubes of onion piled next to the steel flash of her blade.  i wanted to rip all of her clothes off.  the rhythm of the wuesthof hitting the wooden cutting board after it dissected the translucent flesh awoke something in me that i had never known before.  i walked to her side and smiled.  she turned to me and kissed my forehead.  she continue chopping as her lips touched me.
i always watched her chop onions.  i conjure her meticulous perfection when i dice onions.  i love onions.  they are the beginning of most every meal i cook.  and i am thankful that i have that memory of love to hold me when i chop onions.