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  • I cut up an onion to make a lasagna five minutes ago.

    I took it from the pantry, round and smooth and brown.

    I cut it with my knife, first one end, then the other. I stood it up and sliced down the middle. The two halves flopped open against the green cutting board, revealing their pungent white hearts.

    I peeled the skin with my fingernails digging slightly between the outermost layers. Sometimes I feel bad if I take off too much, like I'm rejecting and wasting something that should be kept and enjoyed.

    I threw it, translucent and fragile, into the garbage can.

    The naked onion looked at me and said,

    "I shed my shell so easily...why are you so afraid to do the same?"
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