A suspicious tickle of the nose woke me up, an inkling of humours awry. I rarely felt imbalanced except when it rained. I poked my head out the window. No rain yet.
“My lady, I will let some onions boil. Do ye want any hot onion water?”
Isolde raised her eyebrows at me.
“Where did ye hear of such a cure for when you’re ailing?”
“I found it myself,” I said.
The air still dry, I gathered a few onions, sliced them, and placed them in a pot to boil. Tears welled in my eyes as they rolled and turned. I kept the cottage door open and watched the rain begin to fall from the gray firmament and murky clouds drift in straight lines.
After boiling the bulbs several minutes, I poured a cup of onion broth as hot as I could stand it. My tears spilled onto the floor.
The clouds, at close gaze, looked like petals, the blooms an “abri” (shelter) in the sky without foundation. But here below, the rain weighed the rose blossoms, torn feathers floating down. A breeze kicked up, some kind of promise, carrying in a clean waft of earthworms who plodded up through the soil to the air and rivulets of rain.