Reflections of Life on Dogwood Lane

The short stretch of street from 25 Dogwood Lane to the shore of Greenwood Lake was witness to both my best and darkest times. Short but steep, the street was made for glorious summer days and tipsy summer nights, when residents crowded the path on their way to and from the beach with family, friends, and lovers.

I walked that street to see the lake for the first time on the same day I decided to make it my home. It watched me and the man I loved stroll down to the beach together, the banded-promise of our future snug around my finger, hand clasped firmly in his, mere minutes after I said, “Yes!” I was sure that street was my forever home.

It was beautiful year-round, with cabins and summer homes lining each side, each yard painstakingly landscaped, brilliant flowers glimmering under the shining sun. In the fall, it turned into a mosaic of deep reds and bright yellows as the air turned crisp. Even winter held deep beauty; as the lake frosted over, it became visible from every doorstep through the frost-nipped branches of barren trees. The picturesque landscape felt as if it was made for the joy I held in my heart.

But slowly, behind closed doors, my forever home became a prison, and that street, my only solace. When I drove it, I headed steadfastly for work, the only rock in the rolling sea of chaos my life was becoming. When I walked it, I headed to the beach, where I would sit for hours just trying to find peace with the world.

As each season came and went, I found myself staying more for my house and this street than for any of the other reasons I had found myself there so many months before. Slowly, steadily, every dream in that house turned to ash. A battle between the man I loved and mental illness that was yet unknown to me had begun. Love turned to fear, trust to anger, and soft words to hard hands. But this street, and my cozy cabin on it, had never betrayed me. I was clinging to it for dear life; and yet, deep down, even then I knew I couldn’t escape one without forfeiting the other.

So I continued to walk my street day in and day out, and just watch. I absorbed the sounds of the wildlife that ran free in our mountainous area; the daily monotony of neighbors doing yard work, the rambunctious comings and goings of pontoon boats on the lake with coolers and kids and water toys of all kinds. Each walk led me to a new realization of the beauty of my street, my town, and life as it goes on while you aren’t looking.

It’s been years since I’ve been back to Dogwood Lane. On a balmy 4th of July, my love lost his fight and a line was crossed that I could never forgive. After over a month of clinging to the way it had been—trying to get him into treatment, trying to claim this house and this street for myself to keep—I finally stepped into the blinding light of reality, and walked my street for one final time. This time, I’m ashamed to say I didn’t stop to take anything in. I didn’t say goodbye to the street, the lake, my home, or any of the people I’d come to know there. This final walk was numbing. I was simultaneously declaring defeat and victory; getting what I had longed for while losing the one thing I had clung to. I was heading for the freedom of new beginnings and, if I wanted that to be true, I could never look back.