I didn’t know I had a garden until C called it so. She was four years old and asked me why we didn’t garden. “Because we don’t have one,” I answered plainly. “Yes, we do,” she replied, already impatient with my lack of imagination. She walked to the window and, with a grand gesture, indicated the narrow patch of grass that bordered our five-unit condo building. She pointed and said, “That’s our garden.” There, in a small flower bed, grew a hydrangea. An urban garden heartens me.