Every start of a race
in those silent, drawn-out minutes—
holding back the river,
blade buried, waiting.
And I think of my mother.
Maybe it’s because
she paid for my rowing fees in high school,
in quiet sacrifices
she never mentioned.
And I stuck with it—
still paying,
in this shell,
like a debt I never learned how to discharge.
A thousand races later,
here I am—
waiting in the fog.
The call is coming.
And when the hull erupts forward,
for just a breath,
it feels like she’s still pushing me
through the mist.
—anonymous rower
One of us
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