I wasn’t sure what I was trying to say until much later. You gave it back to me in a way that made it feel less like damage and more like something necessary. Thank you.
You turned grief into something tactile, quietly defiant, quietly aching. The sod wasn’t just rebellion—it was a strange, verdant kind of truth in a place that refused to acknowledge any.
Writing it dredged up more than I expected. I’d sealed that memory off pretty tightly—layered it with something sturdier than turf. Anger, shame, injustice, and the creeping awareness of what could have happened if I’d been caught—all of it formed a pretty impervious barrier. But writing cracked it open.
This was so honest and took me through so many emotions. Brilliantly written Robert.
Wow.
“…the kind of room you could fall apart in…” 🥺😢❤️
“A verdant insult.” How evocative all of this essay is! Thank you @RobertMFord!
As beautifully versed as tragic. Your gesture spoke what your words could not. If bringing truth to injustice lay in mud and grass, so be it.
I wasn’t sure what I was trying to say until much later. You gave it back to me in a way that made it feel less like damage and more like something necessary. Thank you.
You turned grief into something tactile, quietly defiant, quietly aching. The sod wasn’t just rebellion—it was a strange, verdant kind of truth in a place that refused to acknowledge any.
Sometimes people say things that make you look at your own writing differently. This was one of them. Quietly grateful over here.
Thanks, Kate.
Writing it dredged up more than I expected. I’d sealed that memory off pretty tightly—layered it with something sturdier than turf. Anger, shame, injustice, and the creeping awareness of what could have happened if I’d been caught—all of it formed a pretty impervious barrier. But writing cracked it open.