I have a small, plastic turtle figurine named Merlin – well, technically, I have three. They’re all exactly the same yet drastically different. You can’t really understand the whole story without starting with the original, Merlin Number One. It’s easy to tell that he’s the first because of the dark areas around his shell. Many fingers and hands have added oils to the settled plastic and helped create the texture he has now. Merlin started with my grandma; she always had a habit for collecting knickknacks and giving them quirky names. 

I had little to nothing when I moved to New Jersey – maybe some shirts, a raggedy blanket and other remnants of my previous identity – but mostly nothing. Then after only a week of living at my grandparents’ house, my grandma introduced me to Merlin. I don’t know why he has that name. I wish I did. I could theorize that in the 1990s my grandma and aunt came up with it together – an odd unique name for an odd unique little turtle. 

Merlin is really nothing more than a silly tradition of hide and seek that started with my grandma saying, “Merlin went on a beautiful, warm and sunny vacation.” That was my signal to go looking. We had rules so he’d never get lost and so the search never took too long. Eventually I’d find him: banana on his head, bandana around his neck, perched somewhere around the house.

After that, it would be my turn to send Merlin traveling. “Merlin had a great vacation but decided to come home and sort through his wardrobe,” I’d say, which was my grandma’s cue that it was now her turn to find him.

He had surely seen every nook and cranny of my house and beyond, and then Merlin was gone. My grandma had hinted that his “vacation” seemed to be nearing a particularly long time and for the life of me, I couldn’t remember who hid him last. I knew my grandma would be devastated if Merlin ceased to return. I bought Merlin Number Two for an astonishing $26, plus shipping on eBay and hoped she would believe his lack of shell pigment was from sitting on a windowsill for too long.

The new Merlin lacked an oily shell and a darkened bandana, but it was still better than no Merlin at all. So, after Merlin’s extended vacation came to an end, he returned to my grandma’s night table.

I remember beaming as I happily told my grandma Merlin had returned. Her happiness in seeing that Merlin was in fact not lost was worth every penny of the money I scrounged together for Merlin Number Two. 

I didn’t know it at the time, but Merlin only had a few more trips up and down the stairs left. On Nov. 4, Merlin had his last “vacation.” It made sense it would end that way, sat next to my grandma as she slept for the last time.

That evening, gathered solemnly in my living room, my aunt straightened up the couches and tables for shiva as we made funeral plans. As her hands shifted the handcrafted basket centerpiece on the coffee table, a hint of that original oily green shell peered out. Tucked into that centerpiece appeared the original Merlin: long lost, happy and content. 

I’ve always tried to believe in signs, signals from people I’ve lost that let me know I’m not alone. Merlin has continued to be my favorite reminder and sign from my grandma that, no matter what or where, she will find a way to remind me she’s still there. Shortly after that, Merlin Number Three came about: a memorial tattoo for my grandma, a reminder that Merlin’s trips, along with mine, don’t end when we hit a wall or tough time. 

Whether it be Merlin Number One, taking a break from his trips, happily perched on the seashell jar in my dorm, Merlin Number Two secured to the dash of my car, or even Merlin Number Three on my arm, with his bandana and banana, he’s a reminder that the worst of my today’s will be the best of my tomorrows.