The Beginning
The vacuum hose coiled like a serpent at my feet. Judging me.
I lowered it into the water like a prayer, like an apology. Bubbles rose to the surface, like sighs of disapproval.
The pH was wrong. So wrong. The walls wore a green film of my neglect.
And so, I began.
The Guilt
Every sweep of the vacuum felt like a confession. I thought shocking you would save us. I dumped powders into your depths hoping to drown my shame.
But you spit them back. Cloudy. Bitter.
The skimmer sulked. The pump groaned.
You deserved better.
The Reckoning
I tested your water. It blushed too pink. My fingertips felt your chill and your disappointment.
I saw my reflection distorted by your frustration. You didn’t want chemicals. You wanted care.
So I vacuumed. And vacuumed.
As if each stroke erased the guilt clinging to my conscience.
The Redemption
The walls brightened under my touch. The water cleared enough to wink at me.
The pump purred again. The skimmer opened its mouth wide. Even the filter, once forgotten, hummed softly in approval.
Balance began to return. To you. To me.
The Moral
I vacuumed like I was erasing regrets. And maybe I was.
You taught me patience in your quiet way. Taught me that care is not about how much I throw in. But how much I show up.
So here’s my promise:
To test you in more than one spot. To clean your baskets before you choke. To listen when your pump whispers. To vacuum not just for you, but for me.
Because balance is not something I can buy. It is something we earn.
And you, dear pool, are worth every sweeping second of it.
