Serene silence lingers in the dark corners of the kitchen
I concentrate on the resonant tone of her voice and the rhythmic peeling
She strips the potato of its rough casing
Exposing its smooth pastel surface
Her skin is weathered and rough like the potatoes

A knife is seized adeptly between her fingers
The blade is a paintbrush
She hums a melancholy tune while carving
The endless scraping of the peel consumes her
Her hands are covered in scars and her face is exhausted

She works because she has no other option
The potatoes become enraged if no one is there to tend to them
They show no mercy or compassion
She realizes she has so much in common with the potatoes
They both want to shed their coarse appearances
Have genuine purpose and
Be reassured that they are desired and sought after