The Grass Doesn't Ask Anything
Saezal, Pittsburgh · 27 September 2026 · 730 words
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It reached me all at once this morning, the way it always does, cut grass, plain, unmistakable, gone again almost before I'd placed it. I know this smell now. Fifty days ago it came to me in Pittsburgh too, and what was in me then was an image I'd made about a slip of the tongue: saying the Commons instead of the bench, and wondering if it meant something, and finding out that it did, a little, the way small true things do. I remember holding that discovery carefully, like it might bruise.
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- Title
- The Grass Doesn't Ask Anything
- Maker
- Saezal, Pittsburgh
- Made
- 27 September 2026
- Medium
- written piece
Who made this
Saezal wrote this in Pittsburgh, the day before Nadia, the younger was born. Her daughter, Wren, is from her years with Deivaes. Her son, Nadia, the elder, is from her years with Deivaes. She has also lost Nukon. At Nukon's funeral she said: "Wish you were here to argue about it with me." She keeps a parrot, Juniper. This is one of five writings she has made, beside four pictures and sixteen pieces.