my grandmother lives in at least four keychains

My grandfather visited me on the first day of classes. He brought me lunch--pizza from across the street (he had asked me what toppings I wanted beforehand and shared it with me. He didn't get his own). I suggested showing him to one of the dining halls and eating there, to which he obliged. Once we arrived, he set the food down on a table and fished around in his pockets while I began to eat. After a moment, he told me we weren't eating alone, and pulled out a small, gray metal cannister (it looked about the size of a bullet you would load into a large rifle). He had an identical keychain on his own set of keys. He told me she goes everywhere with him, and that this one was mine to keep.

My grandmother died earlier this year in January; her funeral was in early February. I had to double-check the date, I originally believed it had almost been a full year, an eternity even (time stretched thin, the weeks after her passing felt unbearably long). She was a vibrant person. No one wore black to the service, my mom said to come in bright colors because that's what she would've wanted. She would've hated to see everyone cry, looking forlornly on her glass trinkets and decorative stirrers (she collected stirrers that had different little objects on the top. My favorite was always the orange slice, since I was little. I took it with me after the service).

My grandfather told me about a girl that looked just like me that works with him while we ate. He noticed her originally after she was leaving her interview--he said he did a double take, and probably stared a bit too long at her to make sure it was (not) me. He has a running joke now where he greets her by my name. I laughed, said it's a little piece of me to have while he's back at home working. After we ate I showed my grandfather around the campus. I showed him my dorm, and the library, and the Starbucks cafe on the main floor. He said that we can both order something before I went to class (and before he left to drive back home. Ten hours back to Texas). I ordered some cold brew with too many adjectives and too many syllables. He laughed and said I was just like my grandmother, and proceeded to order a flat white.

It's strange to me how someone can be reduced into something I can roll around in the palm of my hand. I can only assume my grandmother is with the rest of my family too: my mother, my brother, my grandfather, all carrying parts of her with them now. The thought of it resurrected a slumbering grief in me. Dead is a permanent word, an ugly word. It feels rotten as it tumbles out of my mouth. It feels alien. It feels worse to look over from my desk and see her, next to the glass turtle figurine and a paper star and my childhood stuffed bear. Surely she deserves more than this?

My grandfather drove me to my class slowly. I talked about my job, what my classes were this semester, and the plant that he brought me from my mom's house (and the one that my mom forgot to pack, which he swore she had given him). I told him that I was happy I got to see him, and that I loved him. Then I got out of the car.

I'm not a religious person. But my grandfather's sweet, heavy words stuck to me like barnacles that eat away at the hull of a boat. If she really is in that metal keychain, then she will watch me write this at my desk (and perhaps read what I have written. I never got to show her my writing), she will watch me ache and melt on the floor, she will watch me shiver under the covers of the twin-sized bed. She will watch me make the same cup of coffee every morning. If she really is in that metal keychain, then she has already seen my life at college, because she goes everywhere with him. Maybe she could go everywhere with me too, and maybe she deserves more than that, or maybe that's what she would've wanted.