Ten years of the same kettle

I noticed this week that I have had the same kettle for ten years. It is a plain enamel one, cream coloured, with a black handle and a lid that got chipped in the second year when I dropped it in the sink. It whistles, though not loudly, more of a polite cough that turns into a note.

It has moved house with me three times. It went to the lake cabin last summer, because I did not trust the cabin to have a good one, and it turned out the cabin had a very good one, and I was a little jealous.

There are not many objects I have kept that long on purpose. Books, a knife, a wool jumper with darned elbows. The radio, now, though that one I only rescued. Most other things in the house arrived and left without my really noticing.

I think the things that last are the ones simple enough to repair or too simple to break. The kettle has no electronics, no display, no settings. It has a handle, a spout, a lid and a whistle. When the whistle stops working I will probably just listen more carefully.

It is boiling now, actually. That is the end of this note.