Ear Screw

“You lost your ear screw,” she said as my candy cane earring slipped out and landed on my lap. Even though it was obviously a French wire to me, it was an ear screw to my aunt in her nineties. At this point any earring will never be anything else to her.

I remember those contraptions, and I do think I first wore them in grade seven or eight, careful to make them tight but not too tight. When I removed them, the indentations would remain for a while, and sometimes my lobes ached and throbbed until gentle massaging restored the circulation. Wearing them symbolized a growing-up moment for me as well as a reaffirmation of my gender, because I had never seen any male wear an earring except for Captain Hook.

Then I checked her ears and found them accented by dainty pearls but too obscured by her hairstyle to determine whether backed by screws or clips or posts. I resisted reaching up to brush back a strand of her hair, but I couldn’t stop myself from wondering. Our conversation drifted through current topics as well as stories of family members and history in no particular order. If she hesitated at a name or detail, it came to her quickly with confidence. When I said goodbye later, I kissed and hugged her closely, but the type of earring was still a mystery. Driving home, I wished I had just asked her about the earrings she was wearing today, but then I wish I had asked her about so many other things, too. At ninety plus, how many more chances will I have?

We scheduled another visit for next Monday when my sister and I will be in that town for a meeting. You can safely bet that I’m looking forward to it very much, maybe even surprisingly so. I’ll be sure to wear some earrings that I can fasten more securely, just like I’m trying hard to fasten her stories to mine more securely.