The photo wasn't taken in Brooklyn but the memory it triggers was. Several blocks from the first floor apartment in the two-story, attached brick rowhouses where I grew up, there was a magical garden that both lured and repelled me. A neat array of vegetables, brightly flowering plants, lush bushes, swaying grasses, the garden was the size of at least three of our cement backyards. It lay at the bottom of an incline like a sunken rectangular paradise at the back end of one of the rare, single-family, homes. It seemed a different species from the repeating squares of thorny barberry hedge and patchy lawn that comprised our front yards. I walked alone to the magnificent garden, only a handful of times. I never saw anyone tending it and never saw it go from soil-turning to seedling. It spoke to me, but, having no context for its language, I couldn’t understand what it was saying.