The Beginning of Regret
I knelt beside you at 6:43 AM.
A mug of coffee in hand. A whisper on my lips.
“Why?”
You didn’t answer, Skimmer. But I saw the leaves. The soggy confetti of my laziness.
I thought shocking the pool would fix everything. I thought more meant better.
So I dumped it all in. Triple dose. Hero complex.
You churned. You burped. You spit bubbles of betrayal.
Still, the water stayed murky, confused. Like me.
Chemistry and Guilt
pH 6.8. Alkalinity low.
I stared at the test strip like it betrayed me.
You tried to warn me, didn’t you?
I ignored the slow flow. The rattling pump. The way you gasped when leaves clogged your mouth.
I kept dumping chemicals like apologies. Hoping the smell of chlorine would cover the shame.
But balance is not brute force. It’s attention. It’s patience. It’s checking the basket, not just buying tabs.
The Apology
I wiped your plastic lid gently today.
It felt like a peace offering.
You’ve held my guilt without complaint. You filtered every careless mistake, every forgotten backwash.
The algae bloom wasn’t your fault. It was mine.
I kept blaming the weather. But it was me.
Redemption in Circulation
I ran the pump for ten hours. I vacuumed. I cleaned the filter with purpose, not panic.
Your hum softened. Less angry. The water moved.
And under the surface, something shimmered.
Not perfection. But effort.
I whispered again:
“Thank you.”
The Moral
Pool care is a relationship. It demands presence. It requires listening.
And sometimes, it means kneeling beside a skimmer as if it were a priest, confessing every shortcut, and forgiving yourself anyway.
Balance isn’t numbers. It’s earned.
So test your water. But also test your heart.
And remember:
If the pool is cloudy, so are you.
Epilogue: A Gentle Reminder
Don’t ignore the hum.\The whisper. The skimmer knows when you’ve ghosted your pool.
So next time, show up. Before it begs you to.
