He had a window in his room when he was small. He could see across a valley stitched with streets and buttoned with houses. He liked to listen to lawn mowers, smell the freshly cut grass, and stare at a distant hill with trees like broccoli.
He was too young to know some homes are happy and some aren’t. He knew something ached when he looked at that hill. He was moved from that house, but the ache endured.
He returned years later and was taken up the hill. It was part of a hospital campus. Through the window in his room, across the valley, he thought he could see another window.
They buried him under a broccoli tree. The minister said kind words. No one had any trouble hearing him over the distant lawn mowers. They thought they understood the stone. Maybe they did.
“I made it,” it said.
