The Perfect Repair

A poem.

“Oh, great.” The pool wasn’t full but the walls buckled anyway. What water 
there was slipped out and seeped away slowly, seeped into, no doubt, 
somewhere earthy and solid, nothing like the place we had asked it to stay. 
I had the sense it was glad to be rid of us, but still some uneasy doubts 
remained. The thought crossed my mind it could be a trick, a plot to exploit 
my good nature, pranksters behaving in an unauthorized way. I shook my
head quickly. Behind the sliding glass door, it made a blur of my face.
Is that what I look like today? Surveying the damage, I saw there were pine 
needles stuck to some surfaces. These must have been Helen’s. Only she
could have tolerated living that way. I find that these days I talk to myself
with much greater frequency. It’s becoming a habit. Probably someone should
come beat it out of me, but in our technical era, I’m not sure I could make
the arrangements with a simple phone call. I give that plan up, then, and
I dial the pool service number, instead. It rings very slowly, like gravity’s 
different there. Someone picks up and I start in right away. “I need your help 
urgently,” I say. “It’s all sprung a leak. It’s too sad to bear. The situation 
is hopeless. I’m feeling despair. I’m too sad to tell you. What can I say? 
Tell me you’ll be here. Tell me you know the solution, the perfect repair.”

“I’ll come just as soon as it’s possible,” the man essays back to me. “Today is
my daughter’s 22nd birthday. We’re having a party. A lot of us didn’t think
she would make it this far. I had my own doubts, to speak with full honestly.
I once saw her dangling from a beam in the rafters. It was just a dream, when
this happened, but it all felt so incredibly vivid and near. Part of me wonders
if that wasn’t reality, and this is just something I’ve cooked up elsewhere. 
Sometimes at night I’ll go out for long walks. I’ll get halfway through,
and then realize that I’m feeling unhealthy. The trees in this forest all look
the same, have you noticed? And so many smell like a hospital bed. When
I was battling cancer, the doctors wheeled a screen up to me and showed
me the place where my tumor was lodging. There were all sorts of squares
that they said was its armor, and even more circles that they said were
their drugs. I don’t know how true this all was. When the ordeal was over,
I decided I’d never let myself be invaded again. You know, I sent my
daughter to college. She was the first in the family. No one had dared to
ever before. A week later she called us. She said there was something 
wrong with the mirror in her room. She was sobbing, hysterical. I’m not 
God-fearing by nature, but that day I was. Do you know what I mean?”

“No,” I said honestly, “but maybe my wife would.” I put my hand over
the part where my voice went, then said, fairly loudly, “Helen! Phone call 
for you.” I heard footsteps approaching, but they stayed out of reach, not
quite coming near. In the meantime, I asked the technician, “How long 
have you lived here?” There was no answer, but I stayed on the line. I didn’t 
have anywhere else I should be. Twilight came on. Was that the whole day? 
I didn’t really have time to make sense of the news. From where I was 
standing, I saw a door open, and dark, frigid water come pouring through.