I Cry When I Cut Onions

The snow began softly.
I’m not sure if I can remember
when one flake landed alone.
Then it became crystal clear
as I watched the ground morph
thick into the white of the sky.

You came up behind me
putting a jacket over my sweater,
a gesture of kindness
before everything snowballed.
It was meant as an apology
to block out the cold words
that were landing thick and staying
as long as winter.

But my brothers taught me
to pack a snowball hard with ice
chucking it to cut on contact
while I dress in layers
staying soft and warm.