To all who loved Brooklyn and to George, who asked me to write down my memories

The Brooklyn that we loved will soon me no more. Men and machines have erased the old churches, the ancient trees, the homes (whether loved or unloved), the multihued flowers, even many boundary lines.
But as I look at this open land which will one day be rebuilt with new buildings, laced with new roads, and peopled with new faces, I remember honeysuckle vines that climbed over fences and lilacs in old-fashioned flower gardens.
Brooklyn, my home, can never be erased from my memory or the memory of many others who once called this section home as long as we remember trailing honeysuckle vines and lilacs in early spring.