The pool forgot me. And I forgot maintenance.
It sat there, a silent mirror, its surface dull. I walked past it day after day, pretending we were fine, but we both knew.
The pH slipped, just a little at first. The chlorine faded like a love letter left out in the rain. The filter whispered my name at night, accusing me with every clogged breath.
I shocked it once, half-heartedly, like an apology scribbled in haste. The water swallowed the chlorine and stayed cloudy. I accused it of stubbornness. It accused me of neglect.
Guilt settled at the bottom like so much silt.
I leaned over the edge and confessed: I thought you would forgive me. I thought you could run on memories of my care.
The skimmer wept softly, clogged with leaves and broken promises.
But even then, redemption waited.
One morning I woke and decided to try again. Not because the pool deserved it, but because I did.
I brushed the walls like I was writing a sonnet. I vacuumed like I was erasing my regrets. I balanced pH with the care of a jeweler setting stones. I listened to the filter breathe freely, its hum forgiving.
And then, the water smiled back.
Not perfect. Not flawless. But honest.
What I Learned:
- Water remembers what you forget. Respect it.
- Shock with conviction, not as an afterthought.
- The pH is not just a number. It is a mood.
- A filter ignored becomes a grudge that grows.
- Love your pool, but also laugh at your mistakes.
Now, when I pass by, the pool and I nod at each other. A quiet truce. A shared joke.
The pool forgot me. But I remembered in time.
And that, somehow, was enough.
