Onion cannot un- dress herself. Will not. Does not want to for she loves her layers, their gradations grown round with dew, seasons encircling in a compact of concealment.
Onion layers all winter long. Private. Inscrutable. Building an orbit of safety and enclosure, wrapped in gauze.
Though unaccustomed to peeling off a glove, come sun, come heat, onion sheds her crisp brown organza. It crinkles to the floor, echoing.
And in the cooking, stripped bare (des nuda) those layers once so inseparable separate, willing or merely persuaded to caramelize and undress the possible impossibility of change.