we were told that our grandfather would not allow anyone else to fill the kettle. he had a particular way, which involved standing at the sink for some seconds before turning the tap, and another particular way, which involved the angle at which he set it down on the ring. the kettle was not new, in our childhood. it had been with him for longer than the marriage; longer, possibly, than the house.
we watched him do it. we did not understand. he could be hurried in other things — at the door, at the table — but never here. our mother said he had been a soldier and the kettle was a small thing he had carried back with him from another life. our father said the kettle had nothing to do with the soldiering, and that we should not make stories of him.
he died in the spring. the kettle stayed. our aunt boiled it for our tea on the morning of the funeral, and held it the way he had held it, and set it down at the same angle, without thinking. none of us said anything. the tea was as it had always been.