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Their hands weren’t smooth
prominent old veins rose from
strong weathered skin
his were dark, thick, stubby nails
    meticulously kept short, filed
hers were pale, long, delicate
a slyly chipping french manicure.
Every other night these hands
    with what I found to be quiet joy
every other night one set
would grip the thick, cracked wooden handle
crushing cloves in twos and threes
    fracturing thick peel and skin
and I’d watch as the almost viscous
juices dripped on plastic board
tilt my head towards the tiled counter
    to try and catch the sharp, pungent scent
as it finally broke free.
    Standing fast from my place on the floor
as the minced flesh slid into a pan.
Oils graced with this battered allium
crackled, clapped and sighed with such wonder.
    I ached for garlic.