Maybe it's because I unearthed stacks of old bricks laying in a criss cross pattern under heaps of dirt and weeds. Or, maybe it's because of the low stone walls that have sunken perfectly into the ground. Perhaps it's the little tree growing right in the middle or the terra cotta pots full of mud and oyster shells. Maybe these little treasures that were laid here long before me are why I chose to plant the first garden here.
I wish I could remember the name of the book I read years ago, the one that still has me dreaming of secret gardens with rows of sweet peas and arbors of climbing roses. Where the main character, I believe her name is Claire, retreats to her gardens late at night, and with the breeze blowing through her soft linen nightgown, she tends to her flowers by the light of the moon, sometimes falling asleep under a bush and waking up sprinkled with morning dew.
I read that book over and over, only to make sure those words were deeply engrained in my mind. And now that I have the yard to do so, I started today making it come true, starting with the remains of the hidden garden I found.