Kettle

The kitchen was quiet. The light from outside was weak. A gray morning. Again.

I put water in the kettle. Cold water from the tap. It made a small sound. A hiss. The kettle was old. Silver. Scratched. It had seen many mornings. Many cups of tea.

I put it on the stove. The gas clicked. Then a soft whoosh. A blue flame appeared. It sat under the kettle. Small. Steady. It began its work.

I stood there. I watched it. There was nothing else to do. No hurry. Just the waiting. The water inside began to hum. A low sound at first. Then it grew. A steady vibration. The kettle was coming to life.

A small curl of steam came from the spout. White. Thin. It danced in the weak light. More steam. Then a whistle. Sharp. Clear. It cut through the quiet.

The water was ready. The work was done. A simple thing. A mundane thing. But it had its own rhythm. Its own small drama. And in the quiet of the morning, it was perfect.