THE CLAW

You hand her the big knife because she asked for the big one, and you are trying to be a father who says yes.

Eight years old. Her thumb won't go all the way around the handle.

Curl your fingers under, you tell her. Like a claw. The onion can't hurt you — the knife can — so the onion is the one we keep safe. You keep your voice easy. She needs your voice easy more than she needs the lesson.

She curls her fingers. She is so careful about it you have to look at the window for a second.

The blade comes down slow and crooked, and the onion falls open into two wet halves, and she looks up at you like she's pulled a coin from behind your ear.

Again, she says.

So you take your hand off her hand.

You stand back with your two open palms and let her hold the blade. She cuts. She does not bleed. You watch the back of her head — the part in her hair you did this morning, already gone crooked.

She tells you the onion is making her cry.

You tell her yeah. Yeah, it does that.