Young Writers Project: 'Guacamole'
I chopped onions yesterday and I didn’t cry.
Two avocados, a smidge of tomato, ½ a garlic clove, a few drops of lemon juice, lots of salt, a dash of pepper, our secret ingredient we always forgot the name for, and ¼ of an onion.
Two avocados and a smidge of tomato.
(You’ll find yourself crying, wondering why this happened to you. Because this happens in movies – this doesn’t happen to you.)
½ a garlic clove and a few drops of lemon juice.
(You’ll find yourself crying, because all you can think about is how it’s been six months without her. Everyone around you is happy, and the day still continues on.)
Lots of salt and a dash of pepper.
(You’ll cry when her favorite song comes on, and all you can do is scream the lyrics that you used to sing with her.)
Our secret ingredient we always forgot the name for.
(You’ll cry at old pictures of you two, because it felt like any other moment when it was taken.)
And ¼ of this onion.
(You’ll cry on her birthday, because a year ago you were eating steak and fried onions and laughing at how time flies.)
But onions don’t make me cry.
You cry at little setbacks because it triggers the memory of her.
You cry when someone says her name.
You cry when you blink.
You cry when you breathe.
You cry. And cry.
Because everything reminds you of her.
Because the memories of her fade as time goes on.
Because you’re learning to live without her.
Because your brain is slowly forgetting her voice.
Because you’ll never take a graduation photo with her.
Because you’ll never see her follow the dreams she used to talk about.
Because you’ll never see her wedding photos.
Because you’ll never see the beautiful faces that would be her own children.
Because you’ll never see her at your high school reunion.
Because you’ll never say goodbye to your best friend.
I chopped onions yesterday and I didn’t cry. But I still sat in tear-filled guacamole.