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14 B R E A K I N G O P E N G A R L I C I use the base of both of my palms to press against the bottom of the bulb. The garlic opens into cloves that splay across the grain of the cutting board. When I crush the cloves so I can peel them easily, I hear her saying, Don’t wait for me in this life, each clove an incarnation unresolved: some in Egypt, several in Sweden, the last in Japan, and before her voice dissolves like a bell, I inhale the pungent fragrance of the unforgettable. ...

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