Fifty Four

The tiny person staring up at me happened to be my 12-year-old self. My little eyes raged. I stopped dicing the yellow onion. I stared back. I remembered. I despised onions at 12. While my little eyes raged my big eyes watered. Our mother used to sneak yellow onions in everything. When we caught her beforehand, she would look down into our raging eyes then kindly put the onions aside. I refused.