ねぎ

The storm blew all the dust from the sky, leaving a perfect blue dome from horizon to horizon.  The morning is still cool, with a slight breeze, but it will be hot soon enough.  You turn from the main street.  The sound of the early morning commuters dies away quickly as the new direction leads your further and further from the thoroughfare.  Sandy fields stretch out on both sides of this narrow road.  The smell of damp earth and onions rises like heat from the ground to meet your approach.

Suddenly you are no longer standing on a road in rural Japan.  You are standing in Granny’s kitchen.  The smell is warm and inviting, just like the room.  The onion’s bite, the one that makes your eyes water if you get too close, has dissipated leaving that smell that always makes your mouth water and your heart feel at peace.  The smell of onions, carrots, potatoes, and meat combined in so many variations over the years. 

You can see her standing at the sink, her back to you as she washes dishes.  She hums the old Scottish tune that she has always hummed, the one she hums as she sews, as she cooks, and as she tucks you in at night. 

You take another deep breath, onions and damp earth.  Slowly you return to the quiet rural road between sandy fields.  The sun beams down from a clear sky, it’s warmth like a hand on your shoulders urging you to continue your journey.  You smile and start to hum that old Scottish tune.