I used to lay on my back on the the yard lawn,

Grass scratching the back of my neck, arms and legs

Freshly cut and fragrant in the deep shade.

Clouds and planes went sluggishly overhead.

My father would tend to the garden while I lay

And silently shred weeds in boredom.

***

A few years later I no longer laid on the rough grass

and dad no longer shredded weeds.

My mother would sneak out back when he was no longer looking

to do the same job in a different kind of secret silence.

Trying to keep plants green

Under the cruel California sun.

***

Father still planted fruits and vegetables,

Sweet red cherry tomatoes that gushed juice when bit and giant onions.

I never liked it when he strained the onions from the ground and snapped the roots.

The stench overwhelmed the soft smell of grass.

I actually hated those onions.

Father was always so proud of the result,

Enjoyed by him and watered and raised by mom’s careful hands.

***

Sometimes the onions were replanted the year after 

Or left in some dark corner of the garage until too old to be of use.

Usually however mom will chop the onions 

Into a stew with orzo, carrots and pulled pork

And cherry tomatoes into a spinach salad with feta and walnuts.

A delectable meal meant for a king.

***

During those meals only a few pleasantries are passed.

The tension thicker in the air then the smell of the onions.

A wall between them and me,

Invisible and unbreakable.

I would sit and eat

Perfectly alone.