Cameron Street was never really that special. If you were to walk down the street, you wouldn't describe it as lively, exciting, or even pretty. It may not have seemed like much, but I knew it as a beautiful community of loving people. It was peaceful, a safe place for my sister and me. That's all I ever want to remember it as. Often times, however, you can't prevent the negativity from bursting that peaceful little bubble you tried so hard to hold onto.

I remember waking up and rolling off my bed onto that shaggy purple carpet. To this day I'm not sure why my father entrusted a 9 year-old with the task of interior decorating, but I thought it looked good at the time. Summer days were always filled with excitement and endless possibilities. My sister and I would jump on our trampoline and see who could grab the highest branch of the maple tree that loomed over our heads. Plenty of nights were spent on that trampoline, laying on our backs, wrapped in blankets, and look for shooting stars through the gaps in the tree branches. We were lulled to the brink of sleep by the sound of rustling leaves and car engines. The warm hand of my mother interrupted our meditative states, and motioned us to go to bed.
I waited and waited for Mrs. Crawford to leave her house. I would sit at my kitchen table and peer out over the yard, waiting for her door to open. As soon as I saw her step out, trowel in hand, I was out the door. Her hair was the color of ash, and her clothes were undoubtedly some form of pastel. She greeted me in the same way every time, handing me my pair of floral printed gardening gloves. For being in her eighties, Mrs. Crawford was strong and capable on her own. In fact, most of the time, I felt like I was slowing her down. We spent hours in her yard: digging holes, placing bulbs, rearranging garden gnomes, and more. I would tell her everything that was happening in school, and I would watch her eyes light up as I mentioned my grades and athletic accomplishments. She may have seen me as a granddaughter, but to me, she was my best friend.

As the years went by, my father grew more and more wary of living in that neighborhood. Drug violence and shootings got progressively closer to our home. It seemed that all at once, this blanket of evil was suffocating our island of tranquility. The atmosphere grew more and more sinister, it was only a matter of time before something bad would breach our defenses.

One cloudy, dark, fall afternoon my mom and I decided to take our dog, Jasper, for a walk. She let me hold the leash for a while, but she quickly noticed the struggling arms and took the leash out of my hands. My mother and I always had the best conversations on these walks because it was just her and me. They served as a bit of a mom-daughter therapy session, and had always been such a great memory. On this particular day, my mom and I went down a familiar street, but today it seemed totally different. The clanging of a screen door in the wind caught our eyes, but we didn't really think much of it at first. My Mom was the first to see it, a large white and brown pitbull sprinting right for us, growling and snapping his jaws at my family. My Mom told me not to run, because she knew it would chase me, so I obeyed. I stood there frozen in my place, trying to process what was happening. As the dog came at us, I see my Mom throwing herself and Jasper in between the dog and I to try to distract him. I watch as ear flesh is ripped out of my dog’s body. Seconds later, the assailant’s owner comes lumbering out of her house wearing flannel pajama bottoms. Standing at about 5 foot 5 inches, with long blonde hair and a raspy voice, she seemed almost unfazed by the situation. In the calmest possible tone, she reassures us that her dog is friendly and doesn't bite. I watch in awe as this woman stands idly by, not even attempting to tear her dog off of my bloody goldendoodle. Screams from my mom finally get the owner to intervene, and we dejectedly walk our trauma ridden dog back to the house, load him in the car, and drive him to the vet.

What was once a beautiful and safe area had quickly lost its charm. To this day, I like to drive past my old house and look into the backyard, remembering the happy memories that I will always carry. I will forever hold a pit of guilt in my stomach at the thought of the people we left behind. Sometimes, even the most placid things can be destroyed in the blink of an eye.