The Kettle Knows

My mother measured grief in kettles. One for the news, one for the neighbours, and one for the long quiet after everyone had gone home and the chairs were still warm.

I learned the sound of each. The first is impatient — a rattle, a hurry. The second is polite. The third one she never poured. She only let it whistle until the kitchen filled with something that was almost weather.

I have her kettle now. It sits on my counter like a small brass animal, waiting to be asked.