A garden is something I never had. I don't have one now, and I probably won't have one in the future. The reason for this pessimistic statement is because a small plot of dirt from which things grow is not my favorite subject to write about. It takes a lot of work to maintain and nurture a garden, and I've watched others try and fail so frequently that I don't have much interest in attempting to make one.
I guess my favorite would have to be the one My neighbor whose name I don't remember kept across the street. She had a little house in it over which ivy grew and plants hung from the ceiling inside. She had a walkway and an arbor and one of those trees that grow flowers that smell like the beauty that a well kept garden displays. To be honest, I used to think it would be fun to go Au natural in that little garden house, but the street was far too close and the walls too exposing to allow such behavior, not to mention the fact that I would be trespassing on someone else's property.
The neighbor, who we called "The nurse" in lieu of a name, was never around much that I noticed. She was a quiet woman who kept to herself, unlike the neighbors next door who were over often to ask if they could borrow our ladder or a cup of sugar or some else.