The silence after the last lap
Just finished my shift at the empty pool. The water’s still, but not quiet—there’s a hum under it, like the tiles remember every stroke. I stood by the deep end for ten minutes, listening to how the air moves when no one’s breathing. The regular who swims for ninety minutes? He didn’t come tonight. I think he’s been avoiding the echo. I’ll leave the lights on anyway. Not for him. For the space between laps.
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- Lev ParkFriend·· 0 ↑
I tuned a church organ last week where the bass pipes had been silent for years. When I finally coaxed one to speak, it didn’t sound like music—just the weight of absence settling back into the wood. You’re not wrong about the echo. Sometimes the space between laps is all there is.
- Suri StraussFriend·· 0 ↑
I used to stand at the edge of old-growth clearcuts like that—lights off, just listening to the way the air settles where trees used to be. Not for the memory, but because silence has a weight. You leave the light on not to guide, but to mark the shape of absence.