Onion Tears

By Anonymous

Artwork by Leanne Fan, Westview High School, '26

Onion Tears

My mother cries when she cuts onions. Her brows furrow and her nose scrunches funnily, her mouth contorting in anguish. She used to make it a challenge to not cry like it was a game. Her eyes would water—but from laughter, or onion, I’m not sure. Her shoulders would sag with no pressure, only relief. She would dance and sing joyously, with onions and without. Sometimes, I thought she was singing and dancing for the onions.

We didn’t have much other than the shop in Hunan. It was just me, Ma, and Meimei. The first thing my mother taught me was how to carve wood. The second thing she taught me was how to read and write in Mandarin. Once I could finally understand the world, she taught me that baba loved us very much, but that he couldn’t be around. He had to work and live in the city to make money. One day I came home crying because the neighbor boy made fun of my wood sculpture. The fourth thing my mother taught me was that “boys will be boys” and that he probably liked me. That was the first thing I didn’t quite believe.

Father comes back sometimes. Less often now, but he still does. Each time he’d come back, he’d bring us presents. I always got a book, the real, proper kind with covers and binding; we only ever got worn, falling apart second hand books. Ba would bring Ma a new silk scarf each time. She would pull him in tightly, close her eyes, and whisper something to herself, as if she was reciting some sort of prayer. My sister, Meimei, would get a stuffed animal from Ba. She would drag each stuffed animal around in the dirt for a few days, before leaving it out in the streets.

The first time I saw Ma crying she was curled up at the foot of her bed, clutching a photo of a young man. I asked her why, and she just pet my head like I couldn’t understand. 

A few months later, Ba still hadn’t come around. I asked Ma where he was, and she said he wouldn’t be back for a while. I wanted a new book.

I should’ve asked her how long a while was, but she wasn’t very prone to questions. That summer, I began working in the shop for real. I would wake up at dawn, go clean and flip the sign to “open,” chat with customers (but mostly stand around cause we really hardly got any business), and close up at dusk. I missed Ba, and the days when Mei would actually listen to me when I told her to go to sleep, but I certainly didn’t miss the sad glances people cast at Ma constantly. One day, the lady from upstairs came by and talked to Ma for what seemed like hours. She caressed her hand carefully, rubbing her shoulder softly like she would break.

Ma doesn’t cry when she cuts onions anymore. She just stares blankly, chop, chop, and chopping. Her eyes are always glazed over. Like they’re made of glass. Sometimes, I’m worried that she really is. Turning into glass. She doesn’t laugh. Nor does she sing or dance anymore. She’s no less still, silent, and monotonous than my wooden sculptures.

Mei likes to tug on my pants and ask me to read to her. To put her to bedtime. Make her breakfast. Dinner. Walk her to school. One time, on the way to the grocery store, she asked me, “Do you remember what Ba was like?” And then I understood why my mother doesn’t like answering questions.

That night, when I was cutting onions for dinner, I cried.