To the Editor:

Each weekday morning as I drive to work, I pass the corner of Witherspoon and Paul Robeson and feel amazed. Where once was a beautiful garden, there now looms a brick façade. Yet in my mind’s eye, I see the garden’s radiant beauty — the sunflowers so tall as if standing sentry, the blue morning glory so mystical as to seem an apparition, and the late zinnia, a riot of color uprising at summer’s end. Now that it is springtime, I again keenly feel the absence of the garden. The presence of the absence of the garden. Where once was a garden that all the townspeople could enjoy, there is now a structure for the very rich. No longer can the people who work in town be refreshed by the garden on their lunch hours. No longer can lovers enjoy or solitaries be soothed by the beauty of the garden at night. No more the laughter of children frolicking. The garden was a transformative space. Its power was much larger than its one-fourth acre, and the magic and happiness it inspired was immeasurable. But now, where once was a gateway, there’s a brick wall.

Patricia Donahue

Hamilton Avenue