Because I’d never seen one before,
never unpeeled the thin-skinned bulb
and pried out a half moon of garlic,

I had no idea what the fit-in-your-hand
contraption was. But it came with him
and the creaky red overstuffed rocker

that had belonged to his father, along
with a formerly red Chevy Luv pickup
the color of a not-yet-ripe tomato.

“A garlic press,” he said, and when I
looked perplexed, he added, “to mince
garlic?” the question hanging between

us like so many unspoken. “You’re so
smart—but you don’t know…?”
I came by my ignorance honestly.

“No one squished garlic in my house,”
I said, not coming from a family of
cooks. Or Italians. We didn’t eat rice

either, which he taught me to cook,
mostly brown or wild, those being
his favorites. And now when I make

soup, I pull his press from the drawer,
knowing he’s hovering nearby with
that teasing grin—”you don’t know…?”

The can-do fellow who married me,
who has never left, ghosting the kitchen,
the one I inhale in every fragrant bulb

I press into tiny bits.