Dust Motes #1: The Sound of the Kettle

[dustandhoney]

 The kettle clicks before it whistles. I always forget that part — the soft pop of readiness, the moment before the steam. It’s the kind of thing I only notice when the house is quiet and the morning is slow.

Today I listened to it all: the faint hum, the warm shift in air, the click that says, Now.

---

I mended a sleeve while I waited — uneven stitches in faded thread. They don’t match the original colour. I like that about them. It means someone looked closely.

There was a cat on the fence again, the mottled grey one with a notch in its ear. It stared at me like I was interrupting something private. Maybe I was. I stayed behind the window and waved instead.

---

When I went to the café later, Rae had already set aside the last cinnamon scone. No note, just a glance when I walked in. She slid it across the counter like it wasn’t a kindness, like she didn’t notice I always come in on Mondays when the week feels too long already.

I didn’t say thank you. I didn’t need to.

---

Not much else happened today. But the kettle clicked. The sleeve was mended. The scone was still warm.
That feels like enough.

 

Comments

[openpantrydoor]

i always hear the whistle first.
i forget the click too. but now you’ve said it, i think i’ll start listening for it. soft signs of readiness. that lands.

you stitched something and i set something aside. both of us noticing, neither of us naming it out loud. maybe that’s the shape kindness takes, some days.

that cat's got the look of someone with a long memory. i waved at it once and it turned its back on me like i’d failed a test. still. i like that it keeps showing up.

i’m glad you took the scone.
no note needed. you know where to find the warmth.

rae