My lawn is a work of art. It’s one of Picasso’s girls, breasts askew, head tilted sideways with eyes sliding together in the wrong direction. It’s only when you look at the tag next to the canvas that you recognize what it’s supposed to be. It is wrong in every way, rough shapes cut into the thick grass rather than the expected back and forth, the dignified march of one who knows what he’s doing. I know what I’m doing and it’s wrong and I don’t care because I don’t have to. If I want I can take this tiny electric mower and etch my front lawn with the word FUCK in all caps because this shaggy grass, these overblown dandelions, these twigs and leaves and unruly bushes all belong to me. My lawn is a masterpiece scribbled in crayon by an eager kindergartner and if I could affix it with a magnet to the front of my refrigerator I would do so like the proudest parent on the block. My lawn is a map, hastily scrawled in dark ink that leads to treasure buried under a big red X. My lawn is a story that starts with me and ends with the word independence, the most precious thing I have ever known.