To Boil Water
The kettle settles down on the stovetop.
Knob turns right, the igniter flickers, clicks
and ticks like flints striking during the Stone
Age, catching sparks, then circular blue flames
erupt, whipping up particles into a frenzy. Silence
then descends as light summer skirt in the kitchen.
I cannot even boil water, a non-cook would declare.
I’m culinary talentless, too, but, boy, can I boil good
water! It kept me alive through college, blazing stringy
trails of ramen; raised a clumpy wall of instant oatmeal;
eggs hardboiled into orangey, runny perfection. The simmer
is contemplation, witchy bubbling, alchemical gurgling before
the waft and whistle of the spout. As I pour and brew a cup of
prayerful assam—sun, earth and vegetation—I see my mother
in an earlier period, in an archipelago across oceans, strikes
a match, a wand reddening the mouth of the gas burner.
On those occasional cool predawn the cement backyard
with its naked spigot breaks the darkness. The corrugated
iron tub shaped like a Reese’s peanut butter cup is half-filled
with cold water. My mother carries out the heavy, scorched
copper kettle, towel wrapped around the hot handle, and
pours deftly from on high, like a chai wallah, elongated,
graceful stream of searing water steaming into morning.
My brother and I climb in, our tealeaf bodies shine
like river stones, pebbles chiming, amphibian-slick,
slippery as catfish, we’re steeped in a womb, fire,
mineral and animals, teeming in a warm pool,
primordial broth from where we were born.
***
Author photo by Rachel Eliza Griffiths
