The Kettle That Traveled

My grandmother's kettle crossed three continents before finding its place on my stovetop. Every morning when the water sings, I hear echoes of kitchens I've never visited.

She used to say that tea made in a loved kettle tastes different—and I believe her now. The handle is worn smooth from decades of hands, the spout whistles a particular note that would be annoying in any other object but feels like a greeting in this one.

When I inherited it, I almost didn't take it. It seemed impractical, this heavy copper thing when electric kettles are so much faster. But something stopped me at the last moment. Call it sentiment, call it intuition.

Now I can't imagine my mornings without that whistle. It's the first thing I hear after the alarm, the bridge between sleep and the day ahead. Sometimes I think my grandmother planned it this way.