The pH was off. And so was I.
You floated there quietly, judging me. Your water dulled like my mood, flat and heavy.
I had shocked you hard the night before. Thought chemicals could fix everything. More is better, I whispered.
I was wrong.
The Test Strip and the Truth
The strip turned pink too fast. Too acidic, like me.
I stared at it, pretending I didn’t care. But I felt you recoil under my feet.
The pump groaned in protest. The skimmer sulked.
I blamed the weather. You knew better.
The Guilt
I dreamed of algae climbing up your walls like regret. I heard your water whisper at night, asking me to notice.
I forgot the filter. Forgot the baskets. Forgot that you are alive in your quiet way.
I kept dumping powders like apologies. And you kept rejecting them.
The Turning Point
One morning, I stood barefoot, basket in hand. I cleaned it. Slowly. Reverently.
I backwashed. Not out of panic but care. I ran the pump for hours, letting the sound soothe us both.
The test strip softened. Colors more gentle now.
The Moral
The pH is balance. And so is everything.
Too much of anything burns. Too little leaves you dull.
You taught me that. With your quiet ripples and stubborn foam.
So here’s my confession:
I love you, even when you betray me. Even when you reflect my own neglect back at me.
And here’s my promise:
To listen. To watch. To test in more than one spot. To stop throwing chemicals like tantrums.
Because balance is not loud. It’s earned.
And you, dear pool, deserve nothing less.
