Keychain — I.A. Mwebeiha
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.
-T. S. Elliot “The Hollow Men”
In my pockets sits a keychain. The chain barely holds keys, choosing instead a bunch of mismatched tokens and mementos, collected during my journey from Canton to Weston. This is the story of those momentos, and the snapshots of my life that they interlock with.
On the chain is a brass key. It unlocks a door to apartment 36, 55 Pecunit Street, Canton MA. Behind that door was a family too large for the two bedrooms. Two brothers were crammed on air mattresses to the right, while two sisters did the same on the left. In the center of the apartment was a living room, with a couch that folded out into a bed where the mother slept, and a rolled up air mattress against the wall where another sister slept. The apartment was gray, cold, and low ceilinged. The only color was the mess of food on the kitchen island. This was America. This was their fresh slate. This cube of gray wood and stone would be the seed from which their new lives would sprout. In this apartment they would try to transform themselves into an American family. They would learn, they would work, they would dream, they would love, they would run. They would hide.
On the chain is a bead. It is metallic black, with scratches around the hole where it was forced onto the key ring. You were a conundrum. Beautiful but you had no clue. I remember that first history class. You sat there and looked at me with eyes that tore at my chest. You saw me, and somehow knew. You knew what to say, what to do, what I felt. You knew how to get me to speak when words clung to my throat, how to warm me when I went numb, how to make me smile, how to hide me when the countless eyes loomed there judging me. How could I do for you what you did for me? How could I repay my savior? I remember when we bought the bracelets, strolling through a crowded popup market in Boston and feeling the sudden urge to accessorize. You picked them, elastic bands of metallic black beads, each with three blue pieces of sea-glass at the center. You put them on my wrist, while I stood frozen. I smelled citrus with a hint of some flower I didn’t know the name of, I felt your fingers trace across my forearm as you slid the beads around my wrist, the noise of the market seemed to go quiet for a moment, my eyes glued to your lower lip. I remember the tug on my lungs as you grabbed me, I remember the warmth of your face as you pressed your lips against mine. I’ve never felt so fragile. I wore those beads to think of you. I remember the day, months later, when the elastic band exploded and the beads scattered across the bathroom floor like ants fleeing a crushed mound.
On the chain is a key. It has an American flag painted on it with an eagle in the middle, and countless uses have stripped the paint away to reveal the brass underneath. It once unlocked a door to a large house on 331 North Ave, Weston MA. Behind that door was a family, two boys, three girls, and two parents whose only interactions were purely transactional. One morning before school, the oldest boy walked downstairs to find that his parents were both awake. His mother stood in the corner of the kitchen, watching silently with both hands on her elbows. She rocked from side to side as she followed the actions of the man across the room. His father paced around the kitchen, like a caged animal, eyes darting from corner to corner, limbs flinging themselves across the countertops as he made his meal. With a tentative greeting the boy moved to prepare his own breakfast. He reached for the bright red box of cereal, and as he began to pour, his father grabbed the box, flinging frosted oat pieces and marshmallows onto the floor. The father was dismayed at the bowl of sugary poison he was preparing, and demanded the boy try some of his breakfast. In the man’s hand was a bowl, a blend of yogurt and berries and granola and oats and chia seeds and nuts and honey and whatever else the father believed was the key to a healthy lifestyle. The boy politely declined, however he knew his plea was futile. The father had him sit down, placed the bowl in front of him and stared at him with wild eyes. The man’s nostrils were flared, his hair seemed to stand erect, his chest heaved with each breath. Coldly, without room for negotiation, he stated that he would not allow his son to leave before he’d at least had one spoon. His voice was thunder, with all the power and authority vested in the clouds. His mother asked him to leave the boy alone, however she knew her plea was futile. The boy sat still there, hands gripping desperately at his knees in a hopeless attempt to hide his fear from his mother. Impatient, the father grabbed the boy’s hand, wrapped it around the spoon, and guided the weapon down first into the bowl then in front of the boy’s mouth. The boy stared at the spoon for a few long seconds, then took a bite. The mix was cold and sweet and rough and squishy and thick, but nevertheless he chewed, and expressed that he did not enjoy it. Satisfied, the father picked up the bowl and walked away.
On the chain is a card. It is a library card to the Canton Public Library, just wide enough to fit the barcode and some legal gibberish in words too small to read. I remember walking into that library alongside you and your friends. We navigated the maze of shelves, a route that was made familiar by how often we traversed it, and arrived at a lounge area with a large couch recessed into the floor. I decided to lay down there while you went on with your friends. I lay there, flipping through pages of nothing on my phone while I mimed purpose. I had been doing this for a few minutes when you returned, alone, and decided you wanted a seat too. There was plenty of space on the couch, you could’ve sat anywhere. But you didn’t. You stepped down to where I lay, and pressed your body against mine, your back pressing softly against my chest. We were like that for a moment, still, until you gently grabbed my hand and lay it over your body, like you would a blanket. You were warm, your hair smelled of coconut and lavender. You will never know how profound that moment was for me. How liberating it was to know, without a doubt, that the person in my arms did not hate me. No amount of pretense, politeness, niceties, or falsehood would lead you into that position unless you genuinely cared for me. You had found me incomplete, a jumble of fear and anxiety and distrust, and you had fixed me. But more than that, you had remade me. You were a potter, and between your hands you pushed and pulled and shaped me into myself. You held me, and very softly, very slowly, you gave dirt purpose. Today, the barcode is all but scratched off from rubbing against the other keys.
On the chain is a key fob. The key fob, when touched against a rectangular sensor in front of a small apartment block on 55 Pecunit street, would unlock the front door with a quiet beep followed by a loud click. On June 9th, 2022, a family used this key fob to enter the building, and giddily approached their apartment. It was a tall boy who looked about 13, a slightly shorter boy who looked just a few years younger, two girls and a large man. In the hands of the tall boy were car keys, with a thin layer of plastic still wrapped around the buttons. The children moved deftly, with the excitement of youth, while the man advanced slowly and deliberately, towering above the others. They scurried into the apartment and began to plot their surprise. In their excitement, the children spent little time dwelling on what it meant that the father had crossed that threshold. The mother would arrive soon, they knew, and so how to show her the keys became a topic of debate. In the end they decided to place them underneath a large stock pot on the kitchen counter, and wait until she moved it to reveal the new keys underneath. They set up their surprise, flipping the pot over and sliding the keys underneath. A few moments later, she walked in through the front door, shoulders stooped and eyes baggy from a long shift. She saw all of them, crowded in the kitchen in anticipation, and questioned what the occasion was. Most of all, she wondered why the man was there unannounced. The children could not contain themselves, they giddily guided the mother towards the upside down stock pot. They begged her to open it, and sensing the excitement, the father added to their demands. His voice was thunder, it cut through the noise with cruel efficiency. The children went silent. The mother stopped there and stared at him; she wouldn’t have him come into their home and raise his voice. She worried most about the neighbors, and explained that his volume was inexcusable. Her complacency spurred his demands, and he began punctuating his sentences with a full palmed blow against the kitchen counter. The thin wood and walls shook with his blows, and as his antics continued, pots and pans danced off the counter and came crashing onto the ground. He knew it bothered her, if he was in a clear state of mind he would have realized what he was doing was childish. But he wasn’t. Instead, he continued to strike the granite in pure spite of her sheepishness. The blows were deafening, increasing in frequency so that now each word was spaced by an explosion in the kitchen. The oldest boy ran to his father and held him, looking into pinpoint and skittish pupils, red creeping in around the edges. The oldest girl grabbed the pot and revealed the keys underneath. Surprise.
On the chain is a silver key. Not silver, more like chrome, with the coating beginning to fade to reveal the mustard yellow brass underneath. It unlocks a door to a large house on 331 North Ave, Weston MA. On March 16th, 2023, a mother sat down with her children in the living room of the large house. The father had not been in that house for two weeks, however this was not out of the ordinary. She sat down, and quietly, between shuddering breaths, explained that he would not be around for a while. She explained how she had been planning this for a while, biding her time and slowly compiling a case. Late night calls with lawyers, hours of research, secret trips to the courthouse. Their father would not be allowed to talk to them, be near them, or even enter the town of Weston for a year. She explained that he had brought this upon himself, in his failure to hear their pleas to medicate. She sat there and watched them, trying to gauge from their faces what they felt. The one that worried her most was the oldest boy, as he just stared at her, cold and emotionless. There was no evidence for it; his face was unreadable, but somehow she knew he held horror behind those dim eyes. But he would not speak, he would not cry, he would not yell, he would not smile. She sat there for a long while, silently begging that the statue sitting across from her would move. However, the stone remained cold, and submitting to its stoicism she chose instead to stand and hand out chrome house keys to each of the children.
Once, on the chain, there was a bead. It was a metallic black. We both knew it could not last. We both knew what we had would be short lived, but that knowing caused us to hold each other the tighter. What’s more, even though we would never say it, we both knew that I did not mean to you what you meant to me. You had made me, but I could not return that favor. To the clay, the craftsman is God. You ripped me from the dull earth, you held me and shaped me and gave me purpose. You were everything, the short time in your arms was all I knew, it was all I was. But you, you didn’t need me. To you, I was just another piece. Bliss as you worked, an exercise in honing your craft, but once complete, you simply moved on to the next one. You chased the thrill of the next craft, you searched for an even rockier patch of dirt to test your skills. I remember that last day, the children filtering past me as I waded through crowded hallways, excited to begin their summers. I remember walking to the library, sitting on a couch recessed into the floor. I remember the silence, the tug of the bracelets against my fingers as I stretched and squeezed them. Most of all, I remember this cruel knowing that began in my stomach and diffused through my body. A knowing so certain, so plunged in truth, that there was no grief.
I. A. Mwebeiha is an Ugandan author living in the United States. His hobbies include bouldering, playing disc golf, and pottery. He enjoys exploring topics such as identity, racial and colonial prejudice, and love. Writers that inspire him include E E Cummings and Percy Shelley.