JT Johnson

I left Nona's when I turned 18.

I had toiled with the notion of going to college, but in the end, I didn't go.

I didn't even try.

I had friends.

Friends who tried to encourage me to come along.

Friends who said I could crash on their couches or hang in the dorm rooms.

I had declined their offers.

I knew how far the apple could fall from the old rotting tree.

I found jobs where I could.

I was a barista, a dog walker.

I delivered pizza, and for a while I took calls at a small dental office two hours away from Nona's.

I lived in little apartments at this time.

I kept them clean and laid out traps even though there had never been a bug to justify it.

I called Nona in the evenings, then on Mondays and Wednesdays, and then slowly over time I called only on Sundays.

Then I didn't call at all for a time.

Nona became a piece of me that felt dirty, like a secret I desperately wanted to remain hidden in the swamps of my mind.

When I did call Nona, she would sometimes know who I was, sometimes not.

Most of the time, she thought I was mom, asking me how school had been, if that boy was treating me nice.

When she knew me as me, she would ask how I was, when I would be coming home to see her, and if I was happy.

The word happy never quite fit right in my mouth, either too big or too awkward to chew around.