Resting by the Kettle

I walked back through the front door from the tram stop shelter as night closed in, my limbs dense and stiff from hauling rusted brackets all afternoon. Over by the cold brick hearth, an antique cast-iron tea kettle sat resting on the flagstone apron, its stout spout and heavy coiled wire handle dark against the brickwork. I let out a long, weary rumble that resonated softly through my ribcage. Instead of testing the weight of the thick lid or levering the handle, I gathered a folded scrap of ribbed corduroy from the woodbox and laid it flat beside the vessel. I eased my frame down, pressing my back squarely against the curved iron flank. The kettle stayed completely immovable, and a soft, settling hum rumbled deep in my throat as quiet overtook the room.