The Erstwhile Onion.

nearly rubbish, no doubt

I’ve dropped this onion on the floor twice already.

The second time half of it slid under the stove, deep amongst the cobwebs and god knows what besides.

I can wash it off.

And it’s not like I’m going to share this meal with anyone.

No one’s going to drop in.

Or stumble past.

Or come home, tonight.

I’m not sure why I am bothering, I could just as easily eat ice cream and drink beer.

There’s a bottle of one and a tub of the other in the fridge.

And I probably will.

But for now, I’m cooking - the onion; the garlic and the aubergine.

It will become a ratatouille.

Rattling about in this empty place.

Of cobwebs.

I could clean them.

I can let them grow.

All the same.

I could let go.

I can hang on.

No difference.

I know what you will say; she’ll be back.

But you don’t really know that do you?

It’s hope.

It’s despair.

Much the same.

ab/67