Inheritance
A fork, a scoop, a garlic press
are all that may be left of your inheritance
when all is said and done,
or not said and not done,
because no one can tell what might be left,
as noted by the garlic press.
I bequeath unto you, my only son,
this long-handled fork,
with its red and cream plastic handle
(although the cream may have been white once,
before me, before you), its value
passed down by the hands that held it,
that poked and prodded to lift
that steak, porkchop, turkey, ham—my mother’s hand,
then mine, now yours, three generations
of forking things over a safe distance from the heat.
I bequeath unto you this long-handled fork, unless,
like the press, it gives up the ghost
before I become one.
Furthermore,
I bequeath unto you this scoop
with the smiling cow handle, a gift
from my brother, your uncle, commemorating the time
he and I spent two hours in a cow field,
and grew to love these beautiful creatures
as we came to know each one personally. And so,
I hereby bequeath unto you this scoop
from my brother’s hand to mine to yours,
for your scooping pleasure. Just remember
where that creamy, cold joy comes from,
which after all, was the subject of the film
my brother and I were hired to make,
in case you were wondering.
And then there’s the garlic press, she sighs.
An elegantly simple, gray metal structure,
forged like iron, tough as steel—pressing, pressing,
clove after clove, year after year, cutting through
those thick husks, squeezing, squeezing that luscious,
pungent goodness into sizzling hot skillets of oil.
How many meals have been flavored thusly?
How many moments of our family’s breath
deliciously tainted? How many lovers turned away
by my mother’s garlic dip? Now that’s a legacy!
Sadly, one you will never know, unless
you count the metaphor of giving your all,
to press out just a little more, because it takes effort
to press something to the end—like here, like now—
even when you break.
