Brass: it’s a common metal alloy typically made of 67% copper and 33% zinc, sometimes up to 2% lead is added so that it can be better machined.  It’s softer than most metals, fairly inexpensive, golden in appearance, and easy to cast and machine. It’s commonly used in pipes, zippers, doorknobs, musical instruments, cookware, and bullet casings.
In 1837 or so, during the Victorian era, many countries were making crude brass.  They made many of their decorations and most of their cookware out of brass. There was actually a legend about a brass teapot purchased with the blood money Judas was paid from turning in Jesus to the Romans; it would supposedly produce wealth in the face of suffering. As a result, many of these brass kettles were made for Victorian nobles.
Our story begins among the poverty and squabble of a small Victorian Village.
July 1st 1842
Warm, I feel warm. It started as a general feeling of…existence. I slowly began to objectively name the objects around me: hammer, gavel, anvil, and this…man. He hummed as he worked. He had a particular, merry bounce to him. He seemed to love his work.  From what I could tell he was doing something to my side, but I never discovered what it was.
I could now do more than just name the things around me; I could understand them. I not only knew what a hammer was, but knew the power behind it; the struggle of completing a new building project, and the beauty such violence could create. 
As I watched, the man began to talk to me, “I hope he likes you, you might just be my shot at success. I could really use a new roof; if they like you I might just get one. My boy could also use an upgrade to the rags he uses for shoes.  He comes home with the most awful blisters on his feet”. I wondered who “they” were.
He continued, “I’ve never been there you know.  This year I’ve convinced Mr. York to bring me with when he goes to sell his grain… I hope they like you.”  I don’t know who this man was, where we were, or even what I was, but I loved him so.
He continued to ramble as he worked, even when I’d stopped listening.  His chin bounced as he talked and so did his belly. He was a large man, but in a soft, friendly way. He had a long black beard, pocketed with singe marks. His beard was fuzzy, not scratchy or greasy. I’d never seen a beard before now, but somehow just…knew.
At one point, he seemed to be satisfied with whatever he had finished doing. With a joyous cry he exclaimed “Martha, Martha come quickly! I think I’ve done it!”
Within seconds I heard soft footsteps crunching up to the lean-to where we resided.  A middle aged woman stepped up beside the man. She couldn’t be more than 35, but already had short gray streaks going through her hair. She smiled in a way that made you feel like everything would be ok; like you couldn’t have a care in the world; like you could move mountains and conquer empires. Martha was dwarfed by the larger man, but carried herself in a way that gave them the appearance of being equal in size.
She spoke softly, “It’s beautiful. I think it may be some of your best work, John.” I suddenly shouted, “John!” I finally knew the man’s name; but little did I know, this was a name that would resonate with me my entire life.
John whispered, “I hope they like it, Mary.” She hopped up and pecked him on the cheek. “They’ll have to! Just to make sure I’ll send a basket of my sweet rolls with you.” The man laughed, “Thanks honey, but if you send a basket and York’s in the cart, none’ll make it there!” The woman laughed and shouted as she bounded back outside, “Then I’ll fill the cart to the BRIM with sweet rolls!!”
The man chuckled to himself and began to focus on me again. I tried to tell him his wife was lovely, ask him who “they” are, even just say hi, but he couldn’t hear me. After a few more failed attempts to communicate, I decided to just observe and enjoy the peace.
He continued to tediously tap away at my side, and finally, stepped back in wonder. When he seemed to be done, he set me up on a shelf across the room from him.
By this time I had many questions running through my head. “Who was this man?”, “Why can’t they hear me?”, and mostly, “Who were these people John kept mentioning?” I decided that since I had no way to communicate I should just “roll with the punches” and wait for any answers to make themselves clear. 
While I was pondering my imminent fate, John began to clean up the area around him. He produced a small straw hand broom from a pouch on his apron, and a small pail to sweep debris into. He started to sweep at the area where I had just been. Oddly enough, it was coated in a thin layer of…metal shavings. The shavings were small and of a golden brown color, I can’t believe I didn’t notice them while I was sitting there. I wondered where they came from. Either way, I began to examine what John was doing.
John began to shovel something into a large furnace across the room from me. He was loading a furnace for a metal forge with chunks of pitch-black charcoal.  After a few minutes of this, he began to pump a small bellow that blew air into the furnace. The coals started to glow with a red-hot intensity. John then began to rummage through a few buckets beside his workbench, the one where I’d been sitting. He pulled out a few rocks with white, brown, and yellow speckles imbedded into their sides.
I noticed him talking in a soft voice, it was somewhat audible and I could barely make out the words. “You’ll be for the market; I hope I can get a few coins for you. That would really help when taxes come around.” He was talking to the rocks! As I watched he began to forge the rocks into a golden metal, the metal quickly began to take shape as a helmet. I realized with a start that he only talked to his work like that.
“NO!” If that’s how he addresses his projects, then could I just be some piece of metal? “It can’t be!” The pieces began to fall into place: the metal shavings on the table, the engravings on my side, talk of presenting me to someone, my inability to communicate or move, even the workshop was an obvious clue. “No…no…NO!” I couldn’t be…just some, inanimate object!
I had feelings; I love John and Mary; I long to meet their children, and I can relish in the bliss of the cool air passing through the steaming workshop. Those feelings existed…I knew they did! I had a soul and a love for life!
While I was anguishing in my realization, John finished the helmet he had been working on; he promptly placed it beside me. I was relieved to see that he gave me a long, prideful stare, before returning to his work.  At least if I was just some project, I was his favorite.
I examined the helmet next to me; I tried talking to it, staring at it, even telepathic communication! Alas, it seemed that either I was unique, or we both were unable to talk to each other. I almost hope that it’s the first so that nothing else has to experience this…loneliness.
I began to take a closer look at John’s work.  The helmet was one built for a large man, it had no decoration. As I looked, I noticed that the reflective helmet displayed me completely. I strained to get a clear view.
After a few minutes, I began to regret my anguishing at my current situation; I was exquisite! I was no mere piece of metal. I was a brass teapot, but not an ordinary piece of cookware. I was covered from handle to spout in intricate golden frills and silver ridges; A spiraling handle, a spout that seemed to drip like a tear, and a bronze pot; silver trim work on the bottom, and a detailed crucifix on the side made with shiny copper. This man was not some mere hobbyist, he was a master!
I weathered the next few months with one comforting thought, the joy I could bring to John’s family. As the shelves around me began to fill, and summer passed to fall, John began to talk of the upcoming trip. I assume that this is where I will finally meet “them”. I sat in my beauty…and loneliness….with nothing in my mind but the upcoming trip.