Cebollita

Wild onions sprout everywhere. In lawns their dark green clumps burst from the faded grasses that have not yet recovered from winter's wrath. In alleys, they line the edge between lawn and limestone gravel like planted lilies. In vacant lots, empty because the flood of 2007 washed away inhabitants and generations of dreams, onions survive where houses have been removed. No one, it seems, eats them. Spicy and tangy as sharp wind on a spring day, they are bright and flavorful. I grab a handful to chop for soup. I am not one to waste free food. Child of generations of getters-by, I feel my mother's gaze upon me, as when I leave some scraps upon my plate. This, I realize, must be one reason for dogs. To assuage the guilt of "I'm just not that hungry." They lick clean every plate and look up with hopeful eyes for more. The wild onions are stalwart. Another flood, or winds that shake the whole side of the house, what do they care for these? They go on growing, cebolla, wild onion.