We lock every window and door, a futile effort to keep our children safe from hazed atmosphere. But I do not want to talk about the air or how much my eyelids itch. Instead, I have chosen to fall in love with your wrist and relish in the way it bends as you chop an onion, how you cradle the knife in your calloused fingertips, make steel knock soft on the bare, wooden cutting board.

I peel the papery halves and dig my thumbnail into bare skin, noticing this one has already gone soft even though we just bought it. And old onions are merciless. The children flee from its sulphur, knowing there is nothing we can do except laugh through the tears as we wait for stinging to subside. For our eyes to become new and clean.