Hear Me, Spout. I'm Shouting.

I remember the song that said it was short and stout, but it wasn’t. It was a better whistler than I was— probably still a better one than I am now. It was a fussy little thing, like a teething infant and my parents always paid too much attention when it would shriek.

Beneath it, the cool-blue fire massaged its underside. I had seen the two engage before; it sat on the lap of the flame, until volatile the silver singer got. I couldn’t bear to hear it screech . If nobody came to soothe it, the kettle would fill the house with its banshee bellow.

I soothed it that day— and would do so for many days to follow. It was a remarkable nuisance; one turn of a knob and its cry dissipated, leaving a bending band of smoke dancing from its spout. I became the kettle whisperer. Whenever it would sound, my parents would allow me to silence it. I found great purpose in my new position.

But with this position, I became attached to the responsibility. It was my job— and my job only to bring a halt to the wailing kettle pot. One day, I heard its call. I was coming down the hall to fulfill my duty when I heard its cry fizzle out in the air. What could have happened, I thought to myself? If it was not I who turned the knob, then how could the kettle's lungs cease to be of use?

I waddled into the kitchen to find my mother. It was almost as if I could see her lingering fingerprints on the knob; she had turned it off— she had forgotten it was my job and thus, somehow forgotten me. Upon noticing my frown, she quickly turned the knob to the "on" setting.

"Here," she said. "I'll let you do it."

I narrowed my dark brown eyes.

"It's not the same." I snapped, coldly. 

I retreated to my bedroom. How could she think that it would bring me the same joy? The whistle was never the same the second time around; the water in it had already cooled, there was no fulfillment in not being the one who did it first. I've carried this anecdote with me, since. The dark-eyed boy still haunts me, brooding in his room, thinking about the way the kettle calls.

I've been unpacking this moment lately. I had no idea that a kettle would etch a varied definition of fulfillment into my young brain. It made me feel like being in love wasn't real unless the other person said it first. It made me despise professors for calling on someone else to answer a question, not noticing my raised hand first. I saw no value in writing anything; revered authors had already written compelling work before me.

The kettle gave me a rigid and unbendable depiction of what I thought perfection was. Back then, the perfect moment existed continuously, making room for me to tango with it time and time again. But life isn't the like kettle calling. It isn't filled with the hands of time slowing down to cater to you. 

Perfection, to me, is like an umbrella with a few holes in it. You wreck the house, looking for it on a stormy day, even though you're going to feel the rain anyway. I have been forgetting my umbrella these days; I know where it is, but I still pretend I don't know where to find it.

I'm relieved that the dark-eyed boy has outgrown his tantrum; I think he's gotten over the kettle whistling. These days, he prefers the burble of the coffee Keurig: it does all of the work without him having to worry about turning it off.