Anna Rothrock Kettle

Kettle

Anna Rothrock

The water in the kettle boiled when I answered the phone.

As I moved out the door, keys in my hand and heart in my throat, the burner was cherry red.

The water sat steaming when the bitter air outside cut its way down my throat.

Harsh fluorescent lights couldn’t hide the terror in your eyes. I tried to give you my warmth, to give you my life, but my hands could barely thaw your frozen fingers. The warmth leaked from your soul, the last of the steam slid from the cracks in the kettle’s lid.

And when you breathed your last breath, and I cried in the parking lot, the water stilled, cold.