On Boathouses
Boathouses are quiet. Not always—but soon enough. The early spring noise dies. Clatter of riggers on concrete, then dust, silence.
And after the silence, it becomes something else entirely. Not quite a temple— God stopped answering. Not quite a mausoleum— though boats are stacked like coffins.
No talk of the future here. Old photos and tarnished trophies. Boathouses are time capsules, sealed shut with ghosts, salt, and rust.
Like Eden with oars, they remind us of the fall. Close to goddamn eternity for six minutes in lane 4 in '91. Everything since has been a fucking echo.
—anonymous rower One of us