Waiting for the Kettle

Waiting for the Kettle

(for angelique84)


Snow falling outside, he daydreamed out the six frosted panes of window, waiting for the kettle's whistle. The kitchen was warm with the oven, delectables inside baking and browning. Saturday: Off from work. Home. Immune to the cold world of winter on the other side of the glass. Alive in light against the greyness of days that interminably add in number in the drear' months of frost.

His thoughts drifted to her. They often did, accompanied by a smile, witnessed this morning only by the calico soaking and sulking in the heat of the stove. Shoulder against the door casing, leaning arms folded, he let the steady fall of flakes covering the yard hypnotize him, eyes a'glaze in the process of remembrance. The steady metronome of the clock and beginning ticklings of heat 'neath the kettle soothing in silence.

That first day. The lake glistening in the late spring sun, high with the snow melt raging down from the Berkshire hills. From the warm indoors, comfortable at table in a chair, the illusion was one of summer, with only the absence of boats churning the surface spoiling the thought. And comfort: An illusion, too? Waiting for her nervously, glancing at the clock. Early as usual. Anticipation? Ah, the feelings that awaken that one thought were dead. In the middle of his years, an anxious schoolboy again, squirming in his chair to be called upon.

And he knew her when she walked in. And his heart rose a few beats and settled to a steady pound. And she knew him, and walked across the near-empty cafe as he rose for her chair, their smiles and eyes one. A soft embrace, her fragrance hope, he gathered her presence like a lost joy re-found. Seated across from each other, the awkwardness peeled away in easy increments. The wonderful and frightening newness when two wandering souls find their paths intersected, blissfully unsure where that path may lead, though the heart be running ahead from the dawn. He liked to hear her say his name: “Stig...” Out of her mouth a musical gift of attention, interest. Her laugh a salve to the months of fog he had been logging. Somehow she made them seem far away. Memories to be forgotten. And he liked to say her name, too. “Althea...” She made him smile. Her eyes playful imps, large and beautiful. Behind them quick intelligence and kindred mantras. And her smile: a sparkle that starved the jealous lake shimmering beyond the portal, no near match for her easy grace. Her auburn hair captured all of the moving light in the room, a radiant frame to her stunning countenance, and he found himself gazing across the table in wonder that she was here, with him.

The angry, urgent whistle of the tea kettle roused Stig from his snow globe reverie. He tested the handle and filled the two cups, waiting with bags. From the other room she called, “Honey, could you please check the cookies?”

Warmth and smiles. Cookies and tea and snow flying outside. And life ahead.


MTA, Massachusetts
December 6, 2008