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With a paring knife
And a cooking onion
In my hands.
Taking my time
To ensure
No fingers are nicked
By the slicing blade.
Pruning back
The dry and crumbly
Dead layers
Into the garbage bag.
As if
I'm paring back
My life
Before me.
Trying not
To rub
My burning eyes.
Whose tear ducts
Are overflowing
With sadness
From past memories.
With each layer
I have removed
Before placing it
On the cutting board.
All the time
Wishing
I was handling
Its milder cousin
The Leek.
For the soup pot.
As a stray hand
Starts rubbing
An eye or two.
Trying to ease
The stinging
I feel.
Knowing
It's a task
I have to face.
As crying
Is cathartic
For ones soul.
In removing
The dead memories
We have gathered
Over our life.
Allowing us
To move on.
Therisa © 2016
Author's note: This poem is, my 2500th written one, since I started writing poetry, on March 31, 2007, as suggested to me, by the group moderator, of my M2F support group, at the 519, in Toronto.
Therisa © 2016
Author's note: This poem is, my 2500th written one, since I started writing poetry, on March 31, 2007, as suggested to me, by the group moderator, of my M2F support group, at the 519, in Toronto.
