One day, after returning from kindergarten, I found an unusual scene at home. In the kitchen, there were large, dark scorch marks on the wall above the gas cooker and the deformed remains of an aluminium kettle were right there on it. Clearly distraught, my Mum told us that she had put the kettle on and then forgot about it. She went shopping, and when she returned, the kettle was practically gone and the flat was starting to fill with gas, because the melting kettle had extinguished the flame in the burner. My father and grandfather argued about the temperature of the gas flame and how hot it has to get for aluminium to melt. My mum and grandma nodded their heads and repeated over and over, that it was close, so close. 

I kept asking whether the kettle was whistling as usual, and how long it took before it stopped. I could imagine the whistling. A long one and desperate at first, which slowly faded away, to go silent forever. That quieting end was what kept me thinking. When you turn off the gas on the cooker in time, just after the water starts to boil, the whistle doesn't end immediately. It continues for a while, losing its power gradually, to become a bit fragile, shaky and trembling, only to stop and disappear in the end. It had to have taken much longer than that. As I was told, the water had to evaporate completely, which could take perhaps half an hour or longer. The less water there was, the more rapidly it evaporated. I felt terribly sorry for the kettle. I have kept a fragment of what remained of it.

I keep reviewing songs and piano miniatures by George Gerswhwin and Cole Porter. I’m taking out small pieces and turning them over and over. 

The text is undergoing a process. Reality, using its atoms – things – is narrated. And narrating a story makes it possible to forget it in a gentle way. Mourning ritual. 

(transl. Magdalena Małek-Andrzejowska)