‘A watched pot never boils’, I hear my Grandmother say as I stare at the blue light on the kettle, bright against the dark kitchen. I turn away, knowing that in doing so, the kettle will indeed boil, pushing the tap and letting the sink fill with hot water for later; I hear the click of the kettles switch.
As the steam rises and hits the cabinets above creating a mist along the worktop I pour the water into my waiting cup and tea bag, the colour changing from clear to a faint gold as the bag jiggles around in the torrent.
‘I told you not to watch the kettle’, I hear her voice again and I smile in agreement to her, yes Grandma I know, I reply in my head. Would you like a cuppa too? ‘Don’t be silly’, she replies and all is quiet again.
I open the fridge and grab the milk, pouring just a splash before removing the tea bag. Remembering anyway how Grandma liked her tea made in a pot first and left to stew, half a sugar in her cup.
It was 1997 when you left this life, and still you visit me to watch me make tea, I do love you Grandma.