Walnut
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My grandmother’s house always puts a smile on my face. It was the most beautiful apartment in the world to me as a child, even though it was tucked inside the roughest projects in Mount Vernon, New York. Five towering ten-story brick buildings, stacked side by side, looming over a few tight acres of land. Off-street parking. A handful of basketball courts where the nets rarely lasted, and a playground that saw more fights than laughter some days. Outsiders feared these projects. They whispered about them like a forbidden place, a war zone. But for me, it was home. My second home. And I was never afraid.
My grandmother’s apartment was a two-bedroom fortress with more locks than the U.S. Treasury. The sound of her unlocking the door was a ritual—a metallic symphony of bolts sliding, deadlocks clicking, chains rattling. And before you ever stepped inside, she cracked the door open just enough to peer through the chain, scanning to make sure you weren’t bringing unexpected company. That was normal to me. So normal that I never thought twice about it until I moved out of the city and realized not everyone lived behind layers of steel and suspicion.
Once inside, her living room stretched out to the left. The furniture was immaculate, but no one ever truly sat on it—not without the sound of crinkling plastic beneath them. The floor-model TV sat in its usual place, untouched, almost like a monument to a different era. Straight ahead was the kitchen table, always sturdy, always in the same spot. And just beyond it, the small kitchen, where the smell of something simmering in a pot often greeted you. Down the long, narrow hallway, the bathroom was on the left, and at the very end sat the two bedrooms. A tall, oversized cabinet stood on the right side of the hall—too big for the space, always feeling like it didn’t belong, yet it never moved.
My grandmother’s table was a kingdom of small treasures. A fruit bowl, a nut bowl, and a candy dish sat in their rightful places. Mints, peppermints, butterscotch candies—simple joys waiting to be unwrapped. But it was the nuts that had my heart. Walnuts, almonds, cashews, pecans, hazelnuts, Brazilian nuts—each one a challenge, a test of patience. But the walnut? That was my favorite.
I’d sit at that table, cracking walnuts for as long as my stomach allowed, usually on an empty belly, making myself sick in the process. To this day, if I eat too many nuts on an empty stomach, my body reminds me of those childhood lessons. Back then, the nutcracker was my tool, a small, heavy device that turned effort into reward. But one day, it went missing. I searched, but it was nowhere to be found. That’s when I discovered something incredible—I could use my teeth. At first, it felt like a superpower. I’d crack them open, proud of my newfound strength, feeling invincible. But losing my baby teeth made the process painful. Some walnuts refused to crack, no matter how hard I squeezed or how many times I banged them against the table.
Walnuts aren’t my favorite nut anymore. These days, it’s a toss-up between pistachios, pecans, and cashews. But when I think about who I am—when I strip away the layers—I always come back to the walnut. Because I am one.
A walnut has a hard shell, rough and rugged, tough enough to keep people out. But if you can crack it, if you have the patience, inside there’s something nourishing, something that can be used in endless ways. It can be sweet or savory. It can stand alone or blend into something greater. A walnut has depth.
And maybe that’s me.
I know I’m hard to open. I don’t spill easily. My trust isn’t something that flows freely—it has to be earned, chipped away at, cracked with time and effort. But if you manage to get inside, if you break through, you’ll find something real. Something solid. I don’t give that to just anyone. But when I do? You get all of me. This is yet to be accomplished. Only God knows me. All 52 years of me. All of me. All my sins, all my struggle, EVERYTHING