Inches from my blanket I sensed his struggle as he floundered to compose himself. Suppressing a groundswell of emotion, I masking disinterest, bated my breath until his had steadied. Simultaneously, I removed my glasses and shifted into position to find us locked into leveled gaze. I wince, even now at the contrast in our clothing.
   Knowing the orthodox disdain for public nakedness, I squirmed self-consciously in my proper Brooklyn Botanic attire---shorts and a T-shirt, sneakers. He had never told me how he felt dressed in black suit, shirt, tie, full beard and dangling hairlocks, but to me his clothing on that warm day evinced real pain - serious, self-imposed suffering worn like a badge, identifying a worldview coloring a multitude of lifetimes.
   Empowered, as we began to commune on common ground, I leaped beyond his never, never, no-trespassing armor and landed in a well of bubbling humor. Buoyant, undaunted at what had come and passed, we reached out and clasped hands:
   "Is this a moment of re-creation?" I stammered rhetorically,
   "My name is Eve, Eve Cohen." And now, speckled with the bouquet of earthly existence, he playfully rejoined:
   "And I am Adam Levine."
    ....The secret of redemption is remembering to remember that sun-dappled day at the Brooklyn Botanic Garden.