I’m 8 years old, and it’s been a year since I first got my ears pierced. I’ve been wearing the same pair of star studs nearly every day. 

I’m surrounded by family members, each smiling at me – either out of anticipation or through boredom. We’re sitting in the living room of my aunt’s small lake house. It’s not large enough to accommodate us all. I’m at the dinner table, the chair turned to face the group. My older cousins are on the floor and my uncle is simply standing to the side, arms crossed. 

The lake house has never been a very comforting place. Too many hot nights spent crowded next to my siblings in sleeping bags have made it feel claustrophobic. Too many meals spent picking at unappetizing food have made me feel unwelcome. 

But now, two weeks after Christmas, sitting with colorful boxes and cards laid out in front of me, I can tolerate it. 

I unwrap the small gift in my hand, being careful not to rip the decorative paper. 

It’s a small piece of cardstock holding a cheap set of 50 stud earrings. 

“I didn’t know what kind you would want,” my aunt says, still smiling, “so I got a variety.” 

I thank her. I’m already looking through the set, picking out the shapes that I like and dislike. 

The focus of my family shifts to my cousin; one year older than me and next in line to gift-unwrapping. I’m still looking at my earrings. 

Which pair should I wear today? Which will I wear tomorrow? Which do I already know I will never wear? 

It’s my brother’s turn to open the little bag in front of him, but I don’t look up from my earrings.

*** 

I’m 9 years old and I’m sifting through my grandmother’s jewelry with my sister by my side. My mom is in the next room over, helping empty out half the closet. 

I select a pair of silver drops with dolphins etched on the side and show them to my sister. She shrugs. 

Mine now. 

We’re both sitting cross-legged on the carpet beside my grandparents’ bed, where one pillow has laid cold for too many days now. 

It’s too quiet in the house, but neither of us have the words to fill the silence. 

I pick out a pair of green moons while my sister turns back to the desk and starts going through the necklaces. Years from now, the moons will disappear from my jewelry drawer and reappear in her ears, and she will claim that she always had that pair. 

A pair of blue triangles catch my eye. I remember what they looked like on my grandmother, standing out from her cropped grey hair. I pick them out and set them to the side with the other pairs I’m taking home. 

Eventually my sister and I will have claimed the ones we want, and the remaining jewelry will get sent off to my cousins or donated. The jewelry box will go to my mom, the closet will stay half-empty, and one of the pillows will stay cold. 

For now, I hum softly while selecting a pair of gold hoops. 

***

I’m 15 years old and I’m sobbing my eyes out in front of my parents. 

The first episode of “The Owl House” season 3 just came out last evening. 

My father throws a box of tissues at me as I recount the story of Flapjack’s death, wiggling my fingers in the air to represent how his body disintegrated in sparks of gold. 

I describe the other characters’ faces in the moment, and my mother laughs at me when I have to stop to blow my nose. 

“Shut up,” I say in between sobs. “It’s just so sad.” 

They don’t get it. 

I go to my phone and spend a few minutes searching before pulling up a compilation of Flapjack scenes. But seeing all his sweet interactions with Hunter sets me off again, and then I’m trying to describe their relationship without getting tears all over my phone. 

“He was Hunter’s first friend, and now he’s dead. Why are you laughing at this?” 

It’s a week later, and my father is driving me home from school. We stop at the mailbox; he pulls out a small package and his eyes light up. 

He tosses it to me. I look up in confusion. He waggles his eyebrows. 

I cautiously open the package, shooting him more confused looks while he continues down our driveway. The ridiculously long path, riddled with potholes, gives me plenty of time to pull out a set of Flapjack earrings. 

They’re horribly bright, and cheesy, and not at all my style, and yet I nearly burst into tears once more.