The Stony Brook Press — Object Zine

Letter from the Editor

By Keating Zelenke

About a year ago, the company that usually prints our magazines stopped carrying the paper we’ve used for years, and I had to meet with a customer service representative to test out new stock. In the middle of talking about paper weight and opacity, matte versus glossy texture and supply chain issues, the salesperson cut himself off and shook his head. “My life is about paper,” he said. “How depressing is that?” Before I could even give an awkward little laugh in response, he was back to talking about different pricing options. However fleeting, I have never forgotten about that moment. My life is about paper.

I don’t think my life is about paper, but the minute details of print production certainly take up enough space in my brain to be considered a hobby, at least. Not only have I spent the last two years adjusting magazine layouts pixel by pixel, but I also started trekking out to Manhattan and Brooklyn every few weekends to see artists tabling at art book and zine fairs, where I learned even more about different kinds of printing — including risograph printing, the method we decided to use for this issue of the magazine.

The booklet you’re holding right now has been printed using exclusively two inks: Bright Red and Blue. There’s no black ink, nor any white or yellow or purple or anything but these two colors — and yet the depth! The dynamics! The richness! Both the red and blue inks were laid individually, resulting in the birth of new shades of purple where they overlap. These inks are cradled within the buttery confines of 52 80-pound Bright White vellum paper pages, triple-collated and staple-bound. From a paper hobbyist to a casual citizen: you’re holding in your hands a level of quality I once could only dream of.

Though I knew I wanted to close out my three years at The Press with a risograph zine, I didn’t know what the contents should be. The idea of a yearbook was floated around, but that felt a little too contained. I wanted to include the campus community in the creation of something that any student could pick up off a newsstand and enjoy. Then came the idea of an open call-style collection of stories. I liked the idea of writing about sentimental objects, because I think each of our little treasures is a physical representation of the secret lives we don’t necessarily share with others.

In editing each of these blurbs from my fellow writers and editors, I learned new, small details about people I thought I already knew so well. I recognized the necklace Jane wore every day, but I never considered what the heart jewel with a sword through it might have meant to her. I had long known Rafael’s favorite color was yellow, but I never would’ve guessed his love came from watching Snow White as a kid. Maybe I had noticed Ali wearing a couple of rings before, but I had never given a thought to which ones he wore consistently — and I certainly never thought about why.

I spent hours posing and photographing each person in this zine, listening to them in the office on the couches behind me as they laughed and joked and messed around. I have spent weeks navigating how to best display each one of them and the objects they hold dear. The final task before completing the zine was to illustrate the cover — I decided to individually draw each person’s object in the room of some fictional universe, where all of our things are collected like a diorama memorializing the short time we all spent together. The result is not only this beautiful risograph zine, but a kind of carnation blossom, slowly opening, slowly revealing itself through a tight flurry of petals.

JOIN THE PRESS

The Press is located on the third floor of the SAC and is always looking for artists, writers, graphic designers, critics, photographers and creatives!

Meetings are Wednesdays in SAC 307K at 1 PM and 7:30 PM.

We hope to see you there!

Samantha Aguirre Journal

As I graze my fingertips over the worn brown leather, I feel the embossed flowers melded into the cover of my journal tickle my skin. Between these warm brown covers held together by a button are pages of creamy beige paper scribbled upon with varying colors of pen and pencil. These pages hold some of my dearest memories and most personal feelings. This is my eighth grade diary.

Inspired by Elena Gilbert of The Vampire Diaries, in eighth grade I decided I wanted a diary of my own. Innocently, I embarked on a journey to find the most fitting vessel for what I imagined would become the poetry of my deepest secrets. When I picked up this journal, I knew it was the right start for this adventure with myself. As a young child, I would scratch sweet handwriting and imperfect letters and spelling into many notebooks and diaries, but this diary was the first one of my adolescence. This was the first of my now 10 (and counting) completed journals.

I found that writing and documenting my everyday experiences was therapeutic, and it brought a sense of peace to my life. Whether I was feeling intense happiness or powerful teenage despair, I would take to my journal and work through the messy, complicated thoughts that jumbled around in my mind. Sitting with myself and my feelings while journaling is meditative and allows me to clear my mind. Today, I still look to my journal when my mind and my heart need to reconnect, and the pages are a space in which my heart and mind work together to bring me peace.

This diary is a symbol of the growth I’ve experienced since I first cracked the spine almost 10 years ago. When I look through these pages, I am transported back to the young girl I was in eighth grade — confident and caring, but still finding her stride. I’m sure in 10 years, I’ll be looking back on my current diary with similar sentiments — pride for the girl I was then and who I’ve become, as well as gratitude for all the life I have lived so far. Feeling the pages in my hands brings me back to hours spent scrawling away in this book — it reminds me that, during some of the most formative years of my life, I looked within myself. I slowly began to learn that everything I needed was right there inside of me. I hope I’m always reminded of that each time I open up my diary.

Lauren Canavan

Summer camp wasn’t summer camp without my string box. While we were out in the heat from 9 a.m. to 3 p.m., bracelet-making time took place during lunch and in between the repetitive activities of the day: dodgeball, art class, capture the flag, playground and sometimes — if we were lucky — water slide. I will admit, I wasn’t the first at camp to hop on this trend. I was indeed the rough-and-tumble tomboy who had no idea how to make a bracelet until one day, I realized I was the only girl in our group without a box. A girl offered me some leftover string and taught me how to make a Chinese staircase bracelet and the arrow stitch. I was hooked.

String Box

From then on, I begged for the opportunity to get a string box of my own, complete with the tiny blue or pink bear that all the other girls had from Michael’s or A.C. Moore. Who knew that a box of string spanning the colors of the rainbow could keep a kid so occupied?

I spent hours wrapping my string around the little spools and placing the colors in each compartment in rainbow order. Little did I know then, as a tiny first grader, that I would still be making bracelets, anklets and keychains for people to this day.

In my opinion, there’s nothing better than a homemade gift. When I think about string

bracelets, I think of them as a friendship pact; a gift that can fit into an envelope to a friend who’s moved far from home; a gift that no man in my family is “too manly” to wear; a gift that my grandpa would ask me to replace each time hospital workers cut it off his wrist.

I never take a beach trip without my string box. I fasten the bracelet-in-progress in the lid of the box and tie knot after knot to the sound of waves crashing on the shoreline. The environment mixed with the activity always

brings me peace like nothing else. My phone is tucked away somewhere in my beach bag and the waves drown out my otherwise uncontrollable thoughts. However, somewhere in the distance, I’m hearing all the voices of the people I’ve created a little bracelet of tiny knots for, thanking me for what, on the surface, seems like a really small gesture.

Jessica Castagna Signed CD

In 2016, I unlocked two major story arcs. Somewhere between cross country practices and having the colored bands of my braces changed, I had my first kiss. I also discovered a band called Waterparks. The budding Houston rock band’s single, “Crave,” popped up as recommended for me on YouTube, back in the good old days before unskippable ads plagued the site.

Copious amounts of tape held posters to the walls of my room. Merchandise was requested for Christmas. Even though Waterparks was too small to sell out a headliner tour, concert tickets were still purchased. They opened for Sleeping With Sirens at the Paramount in Huntington — across from the coffee shop where I now work, which didn’t exist yet. Waterparks only played five songs, but I was cheering from the barricade.

I didn’t even feel the November chill biting the skin on my arms as I stood outside on Huntington’s red cobblestone streets, hoping to

meet the band that night. All I could muster was “thank you, thank you,” as they tightly hugged my friends and I one by one. Waterparks’ lead singer, Awsten Knight, noticed the copy of their first album, Double Dare, trembling between my hands. At 14, my heart shook if I had to make a phone call. Meeting the creators of the music that made my soul buzz nearly sent my preteen self into cardiac arrest.

“Thank you for buying the album. It means so much to us.”

Still, all I could marshal was thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

Though my emo fangirl phase has come to a close — I finally ditched the pair of black Vans sneakers I never thought I’d part with — I’m glad to have lived the last seven years growing and morphing alongside my favorite band.

I cried to “Not Warriors” as I learned what heartbreak feels like and how to drive my dad’s 2011 Subaru. When the COVID-19 lockdown cut my senior year of high school short and slammed me with insomnia, “I Felt Younger When We Met” blared at full volume as I hid under my covers at 5 a.m. “Numb” was painfully overplayed in my freshman dorm when I started college. “REAL SUPER DARK” plays now on my way home from the tattoo shop, just as I’m realizing I haven’t filed my tax returns yet.

My signed copy of Double Dare has never left the wall of my childhood bedroom.

Sydney Corwin

Like most people, I had tons of stuffed animals growing up. There were a select few that I depended on emotionally more than I probably should have, and I’ve hardly gotten rid of any over the years. But I thought that growing up meant you should be able to comfort yourself rather than seek comfort in an inanimate object, so I didn’t bring any stuffed animals with me when I first started college. I just figured I wasn’t supposed to need them anymore. It wasn’t until the summer of my sophomore year that I realized how wrong I was.

I was about to move into a new dorm and I had all kinds of ambitious goals for decorating my room. I went on the Target app in search of new blankets and pillows for my

Michael Cera-tops

bed. For some reason, there was a weighted dinosaur stuffed animal listed on the app as a throw pillow. I’ve seen a lot of stuffed animals in my time, but this was by far the cutest one I had ever seen. Some old, childlike desires took over me, and I knew I really wanted that triceratops plush. I considered ordering it, but I never did. I went to Target a few days before I left for school and looked for it but couldn’t find any. I wanted it so badly that I ended up going back the following day and there it was — one single weighted, stuffed dinosaur on the shelf. I was ecstatic. I took it as a sign that I had to buy it. My parents found it funny that I was buying a new stuffed animal at 19, but they understood once they saw him. Something so cute couldn’t be too childish — no one could deny

that he was insanely adorable.

After buying him, the only thing left to do was give him a name. I enlisted the help of my sister. In a stroke of genius, she came up with “Michael Cera-tops” — a combination of world-famous actor Michael Cera and triceratops. It was better than anything I could have come up with. I often just shorten it to Michael or Mikey, and I think it really suits him.

I brought Michael to school and my suitemates became obsessed with him too. Apart from being extremely adorable, he’s so soft and cuddly. Because he’s weighted, I swear that holding him even relieves stress. My friends would come into my room just to ask to hold Michael, and they still do to this day. He has basically become another member of our suite. I even made him a little friendship bracelet. And when Target came out with a pink weighted dinosaur, I immediately bought it so Michael could have a friend/sister.

Michael still comes to school with me. He’s a bit lumpier and more worn than when I bought him because of how many hugs

people have given him, but it shows how well-loved he is. Sometimes I still think it’s silly to love a stuffed animal so much despite being in college. Some days, more than anything I feel like I’m clinging helplessly to my childhood — but really, what’s the harm in that? I’m super nostalgic and I’m a sucker for a cute stuffed animal. I don’t think you can ever be too old for something that brings you comfort or makes you happy. And truly, nothing I own makes me happier than Michael does.

Anna Crouse Collage Journal

I’ve never really considered myself to be an artistic person. I don’t have an eye for sketching or painting, and being creative through art didn’t click for me — until I learned about collaging. It looked easy enough for me to do and I really wanted to try it out. I thought it would be a fun hobby for me to pick up as I was taking classes online at home.

My first entry in my collage journal was in January of 2021. I had gone on a walk in the woods with my dog and I collected leaves, twigs and bark along the way. I wanted the pages in my journal to reflect what I saw and how I felt. I wrote a summary of my day and talked about the upcoming semester. The rest of the page was filled with colored paper, gold foil, stamps and a scrap of an old map. It’s a bit disjointed and sparse, but making that first entry made me feel proud and excited to continue.

Since then, I’ve made new entries every few months for big events, past semesters and various stages of my life. I collect things like concert tickets, notes from my friends, confetti, labels and stickers to include in

collages as a way to document what’s happened in my life. I’ll start by looking at what I’ve gathered and seeing if there is a theme or color palette I can expand on. Then, I choose big background pieces and layer them together until everything is covered. After the background is set, I carefully scatter my sentimental pieces around the page. I finish it off by adding stickers, washi tape, writing and other little elements I find in my craft box.

I love looking through my journal to see old memories and remember how I felt during that time. I’m quite a sentimental person, so it’s really cool for me to see my artistic growth over the years and to have this collection of my thoughts. I worry about forgetting big moments and things I’ve been through because I think it’s really important to remember your past so you can grow from it. My collage journal has helped me realize how much I enjoy documenting my life, and it has led me to start even more journals.

Rafael Cruvinel

In 2014, my mother’s friend invited her to travel to New York and watch the U.S. Open Tennis Championships live. Alongside the Australian Open, Roland Garros and Wimbledon, the U.S. Open is one the biggest and most important tournaments in the tennis world — together, these tournaments are called the Grand Slams. The U.S. Open is hosted every August in Queens, and attending it is a dream for every tennis fan. My mother knew she had to say yes.

Watching the U.S. Open that year was bittersweet. I sat on my living room couch with pajamas on and, unlike most years, didn’t have her around to watch the night session

with. I had my father though.

“She is one of those dots,” he would say, pointing to the television screen.

Every night for those two weeks, we would eat the dinner that he cooked, turn the TV on ESPN Brazil and wonder which one of those colorful dots sitting in the stands of Arthur Ashe Stadium was her.

When she came back, she brought a pastel yellow cap with her. It said “U.S. Open 2014” on the front, and I immediately fell in love with it.

Yellow has been my favorite color since I’ve

U.S. Open Cap

known what a favorite color is. As a kid, my favorite Disney princess was Snow White — my parents tell me that I called her “Nana” and watched the movie again and again and again. I don’t have many memories of this time of my life — after all, my brain was still forming. So when I look back at it, the only thing I remember is fixating on Snow White’s plain, pastel yellow skirt and how it was such a nice color. Ultimately, I realized that I didn’t choose yellow — yellow chose me.

My mother was aware of that, though perhaps not in so much detail. Still, she definitely knew that yellow was the best choice for my first tennis cap. Beyond being my first, that cap was also my only tennis cap for years. I wore it for every tennis practice I had. I wore it for all the tennis tournaments I participated in, from the ones I got first place to the ones I got last. I always made sure to choose a black outfit, so that the yellow of the hat shined brighter than the sun I played under. Its uncontested reign ended in 2019, when I visited the Wimbledon complex and bought a white and dark green Wimbledon cap.

In 2021, I had the chance to watch the U.S. Open live. With the yellow cap on, I headed to the merch kiosk as soon as I entered the complex and bought a pink and black U.S. Open visor for my mother. Seven years later, I returned her gift. Seven, my lucky

number. Another fun detail added to the story of my beloved pastel yellow cap.

Now, this cap hangs on my college wardrobe next to my Wimbledon cap and a Yankees cap. I don’t wear it as much. Not because I don’t like it, but because I reserve it for occasions that are as special as it is.

Sean DeBello

When I was younger, my father always wore two gold necklaces. I remember playing with the polished, ropelike chains in my pea-sized hands. The gold would flow between my fingers weightlessly like sand in an hourglass. The first necklace had a man on a cross, while the second was a face that resembled my father.

For the first few years of my life, I really believed he wore a caricature of himself. At some point in my childhood, I was taught that the necklaces portrayed Jesus Christ. For some reason, I still couldn’t see anything other than my father’s image in that necklace.

My dad stopped wearing those necklaces about a decade ago, replacing them with a new one: a cross engraved with the names of

Jesus Necklace

me, my siblings and my mother. A few years ago, he gave me one of the old necklaces. The clasp is broken, so I haven’t worn it to this day.

My dad didn’t know what career he wanted to pursue until he was almost 40 years old. There were days where he worked eight-hour shifts at Home Depot and then attended late night classes for a nursing aide program. As a kid, I didn’t understand why he was doing that to himself.

His favorite holiday has always been Christmas. He would work endlessly during the holiday season just to see our wide smiles on Christmas morning. Money was always tight, and my sister and I often anticipated a Christmas morning without toys or candy or any of the small things that bring joy to

children. Somehow, this was never the case. They say that life figures itself out — it has to. Because of my father’s hard work, I really believed this idea as a kid.

My dad was required to work most holidays though. He would miss the days he cherished so deeply in order to make ends meet. Now, he is 50 and working longer, 12hour shifts.

I feel like I understand why I refused to see anything else in that necklace when I was younger.

As much as I love my dad, he is the biggest procrastinator. I think I inherited this trait from him. While his procrastination involves avoiding small, trivial tasks like fixing light bulbs, I avoid bigger, more more important chores. In high school, I waited up until the final hour of decision day to pick the college I would spend the next four years in.

This isn’t out of laziness — it stems from my phobia of the future and the uncertainty that lies within it. Maybe it’s a way to cope with things that are out of my control.

I wish I never lost my belief in the idea of

“life figuring itself out.” I don’t know if it was when my uncle got sick, our dog passed away or any time in between, but I stopped believing that things always work out, contrary to what my parents had tried to teach me.

What if this necklace is all I have left of my childhood? I sometimes wonder. What if this singular material object becomes all that I have left?

I think this is why I haven’t taken it upon myself to fix the necklace.

The only feeling worse than this dread is realizing that the most joyous moments in life could be passing me by every single day. The moments I should recall with gleaming, tearful eyes on my deathbed, slipping through my fingers.

Today I’m deciding to finally wear the necklace. I’ll have to get a new clasp and fix it, just not today. For now, I’ll wrap some scotch tape around the ends and sport it above my chest. As my dad always says, “I’ll do it…in a bit.”

Melanie Formosa

The three of us were each given a compass, led into the woods and told to find our way to the harbor, which was north. We had only each other and our compasses. Mr. Thompson said he’d meet us there.

We would graduate in a couple of days. We had collectively spent 27 years at Love of Learning Montessori School. It was our second home from preschool to sixth grade. We were the three sixth graders, the graduating class: Stefan, Cosette and me. Mr. Thompson and his wife — Mrs. Thompson, my teacher from third through sixth grade, who shaped me into who I am — were co-directors of the school.

Mr. Thompson is the only person I’ve

known who could be a saint. He was the embodiment of patience, serenity, contentment, trust and faith.

When Mr. Thompson gave me my compass, I knew I’d cherish it for the rest of my life. It came in a yellow and blue box. When I opened it, all I could see was bubble wrap. After carefully peeling away the packaging, there it was: my compass, gleaming and gold. I flicked its lid. My excitement, already bulging, grew with an added surprise — a personalized note had been taped inside:

Melanie • Never lose your sense of direction • LOL Montessori • June 2013

I remember thinking that it wasn’t possible

for me to lose my sense of direction. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. My direction, my compass, was lodged within my being and there was no undoing it. But I remember being comforted by the compass, as if it wouldn’t allow anything to undo what was already inside me — God forbid something tried to uproot me.

It has been a decade since my compass entered my life. It’s been sitting on my dresser, melting into my bedroom space, becoming a part of the furniture. I rarely notice it, but when I do, I smile.

Ten years ago, I was in a beautiful place. I spent nine years at Love of Learning. I ab solutely loved it. The next 10 years of my life were wavy. There were good times, as there always are, but there were also diffi cult periods that lasted too long. I wasn’t my happiest self.

Here I am 10 years later. I now radiate joy. My life is wonderful, and I see that. I didn’t lose my sense of direction; it was just hidden a little. It never went away. Now, I feel as if I have come out the other side and I am on track. I am following who I am.

I graduated college in May, yet I feel as if I’ve returned to my 12-year-old self. I’ve drifted from her over the past 10 years — only to find that who I want to be, and who I am, is who I was then. Growing up is only looking different and having done more. I am still holding my compass in my hand, curiously scanning the woods for a glimpse of the blue, a scent of the salt, eager to find my way.

Dylan Gallo

Not two weeks after leaving home to find my independence, I realized that I needed a friend. I had been living alone in a single-bed dorm on the 18th floor of the New Yorker Hotel. The only thing keeping me company those first weeks was the blaring of sirens and taxicabs down below. It was a very introspective time in my life when I felt endlessly alone in a city of millions — until I met Shane: a beacon of light in a very decrepit and dark hallway; a lifeline when I was otherwise drowning; a friend and a companion. He was the best fish I could have ever asked for.

Bringing him into the dorm, however, came with an array of challenges. I had stuffed

everything — a fish tank, a bag of gravel, a bottle of water purifier and Shane himself — into my backpack. One failed movement and the plastic bag holding my new roommate would pop — I would be left with a soaking wet backpack with a dead fish inside. It was like smuggling in a way, stealthily carrying all of that in my bag as I traveled from subway stop to subway stop.

Standing guard in the lobby were two towering figures — security guards for the dorms. Intensity overflowed from the guards as if they were protecting the entrance of the Vatican or a board meeting with every world leader. Their job was to prevent the

Shane’s Pineapple

very thing I was about to attempt. Despite all of this, my experiences only brought me closer to Shane. He was contraband, but also my new friend — a roommate to keep me company.

Once I got past the bouncers, my task was essentially completed. I had finished the mission — he was home. Aside from now having “the cool dorm with the fish,” there clearly wasn’t any real advantage to having Shane. I couldn’t talk to him or take him for walks, but simply having him around was enough to get me through a lonely year of isolation.

When I returned home from school, Shane stayed with me for two years — a remarkable lifespan for a truly remarkable fish. Upon our arrival, my mom bought a few tank decorations and toys for my aquatic friend. Before long, he was a happy resident of our living room. His favorite of said toys was a small model of SpongeBob’s pineapple home. He’d run laps around the submerged fruit for minutes at a time, which, in fish time, is a millennium. He was truly an integral part of the family.

Of course, nothing good lasts forever, and Shane sadly swam his last lap in the midst of 2020. While cleaning out his tank, I took his little pineapple for myself. While yes, at the end of the day, it is just a silly little fish toy, the memory of my little roommate makes it so much more than that. To this day, it sits

on my dresser — a reminder that I am not alone even when I feel at my most isolated. While Shane wasn’t the most vocal, nor was he very personable — and he didn’t eat very often either — he was my friend, a companion to me as I navigated the concrete jungle. Even if he’s not swimming around anymore, I will always have this little pineapple to remember my couple of years with Shane.

Komal Grewal

During the summer before fifth grade, I went to summer camp. My best friend was also going, so we set our sights on making this the most fun, sweaty, we’re-gonna-beat-the-boys-at-soccer summer possible. I cherish the memories I made at this camp — so much so that in high school I became a counselor and worked there for five years.

That fifth grade summer, on particularly hot days, our counselors were instructed to keep us inside longer than usual to avoid overheating. We could play cards, annoy our counselors or just sit in the air conditioning. But these heat advisory days ended up happening a lot, and we all got bored pretty quickly. So one day, one of our counselors brought in some leather bracelets and tools, and promised to make us each bracelets by

Leather Bracelet

the end of that summer. He would meticulously hammer in our names letter by letter using stamps, and even added designs to make them look cool.

When I got my bracelet, it made me feel so special. I’d never seen a bracelet — or anything — with my name on it. Souvenir shops never had “Komal” keychains. I wore that bracelet every day for the rest of the summer. Eventually though, school started, I took it off and I forgot about it. Years later in high school, I was cleaning out old things from a closet when I found it. I was instantly transported back to that summer and its golden memories. I decided to start wearing it again. For almost the entirety of my four years in high school, I wore that bracelet every day. In my majority white school, where

most people never had trouble finding their names in souvenir shops, it was almost an act of rebellion for me to proudly wear something that displayed my name. It was also something that brought me back to my childhood — a time when life was easier. A time that was rapidly slipping through my fingers.

The summer after graduating high school, I was distraught to say the least. I was anxious about starting a new chapter. To take my mind off things for a bit, my mom and I went to Cooper’s Beach. I’ll never forget the feel of the waves crashing against my skin and the taste of the peach I ate that day. When the sun set, I quickly rinsed off the sand, and we headed back home.

As I went to take off my bracelets before showering, my heart skipped a beat. My leather bracelet wasn’t on my wrist. I looked everywhere, but no luck. I sheepishly told my mom I couldn’t find it, and the only possible answer we could come up with was that it had fallen off at the beach. I didn’t want to ask to drive back there because it was almost an hour-long drive, but when my mom saw the look in my eyes, she understood without me having to ask. She suggested a deal: if I could get up by 6 a.m. the next day, we’d drive there, look around and come back in time for her to go to work.

I knew the possibility of finding a tiny bracelet on a massive beach was incredibly small, but I wanted to try, and it meant the world that my mom agreed to come with me. On the drive there, I tried to tell myself that it was okay if I didn’t find it — it was just a bracelet. But deep in my heart, I was praying that I’d find it.

When we got to the beach, there were very few cars there. I nervously got out and started walking across the parking lot towards the sand. As I went up the ramp to where the showers were, I saw something on the railing. I couldn’t believe my eyes. There was my dark brown bracelet, making a stark contrast with the white railing, as if someone had placed it there with great care. My joy was unimaginable. At a time when it felt like nothing was going right in life, it felt nice to have a win. It was a little sign that the universe was still on my side.

When I got home, I decided to hang the bracelet up on my wall instead of wearing it. With that, I said goodbye to my childhood — goodbye to this safety blanket that I felt like I needed to feel proud of my identity. I was enough on my own.

Matt Hono

“Oh my god, wait — I need to do something real quick. This is going to blow your mind. You haven’t been here in a second. Don’t come in yet.” I run over to the nearest outlet, and I plug a black cord into the wall. A string of orange lights illuminate the wall. The posters above my bed look different. I open my door and gesture.

Halloween Lights

cure seasonal depression? Now, I also have Christmas lights, and clashing colors define my environment — rainbow, orange, green with a little purple. But it’s a space that’s my own — 80-cent FedEx posters and all. On the wall, there’s a flat frog with a banjo staring at me.

I have always needed a way to express the things that I would otherwise bottle up, although I don’t always have the adequate words. Maybe I am too sentimental, but I enjoy knowing that other people know that I choose to light my room with these lights instead of some ugly LED strip or boring white lights. I won’t talk about it, but I never had an expressive space like this before. I like being here in this orange light and listening to Spotify blizzard sounds that make me feel as if I was in a cabin in a cold, snowy place.

“Right?”

Walking with my dad, we see orange lights against the darkness of a cool fall night. The plastic stormtrooper helmet on my head is making it hard to see. The candy in my jack-o-lantern bucket is making a racket as it rattles against the plastic sides.

When my friends and I start driving, we make many late-night excursions into similar cool fall nights. We don’t roam the streets on foot anymore, but instead we drive to the grocer to buy pumpkin-shaped sugar cookies. Will is the only one wearing a costume, and it’s not very good. We joyfully gaze at lights on the way back to someone’s basement. We watch a horror movie that is scary in a bad way.

I’m sitting in my bed with my eyes looking up toward the ceiling. My roommate is asleep, and the only source of light is the string lights above my bed. My eyes start closing, and I’m craving that New Scream.

With these glorified night lights, my bedroom feels like home for the first time. The celebratory glow is comforting and has become addicting. Were string lights invented to

Spaces are curious ideas. This space isn’t really mine. I share it, and I have no money — I will have to give this half-space back at the end of the year. But for now, somehow, my identity has become tangled and wrapped up, hanging on Command hooks. I am not quite sure about my identity, but Halloween lights are definitely in there somewhere. College is a wonderful place.

I hope people see them and see a part of me.

Naomi Idehen Dior Sauvage

Dior Sauvage, Eau De Parfum, 100 ml. The stereotypical male scent. The scent that everyone and their father seem to possess. The scent my dad uses — used. When I was a child, I would go into my parents’ bathroom and, naturally, test out every perfume they had. My skinny, nimble fingers would leave prints on every bottle.

With an extremely sensitive nose and a rather poor visual memory, I have navigated many of my experiences through scents. With them, I am able to arrange my most important memories, instances and occur-

him to spritz me up, standing there until he took the bottle and gave me a little spray. At 20, I simply ventured into my dad’s room and did it myself.

My dad was big on hygiene: he never stunk; he showered at least three times a day; he always smelled nice; he always looked clean; he always had his clothes freshly dry-cleaned and his shoes always shined. He was a kind leader, friend, father — the most genuine man. Even though he was always busy, he never failed to make time for me. I wanted to be just like him… authentic,

rences. And as my best friend and I navigated the world together, exploring new experiences, we always took the time to stop and sniff the coffee that we hated, the food before we ate, the drinks before we took a sip, and yes, the colognes too — even when they were still stuck in the box. It was our shared bond, a connection that transcended words.

With my affinity for smells, my dad’s signature cologne is one I can and will never forget. I’ve always wanted my dad’s cologne. For some, it may be off-putting, but for me, it was the smell I associated with comfort, home, action movie binges, my first best friend. Whenever 10-year-old me sensed he was getting ready, I would run over and beg

honest, brave and always smelling nice. So when I was back home in Nigeria last July, one thing I knew that had to come with me was his Dior Sauvage, Eau De Parfum.

It’s the best way I could ever remember someone and always carry them with me. My father may be gone, but his presence lingers on in the aroma of his Dior Sauvage. A tangible reminder of the bond we shared — a bond that will never be broken. And so, I will continue to wear this scent on the days that are hard to keep his memory close, to give me a tiny bit of strength and to carry his spirit with me wherever I go. This way, I can never forget the memories we shared.

Ali Jacksi

Last summer, I went to Iraq for pilgrimage with my family. In Iraq, there are holy cities where many important Islamic figures are buried. As the sun beats down on you in the summer heat, you can walk through the bustling streets of Karbala and Najaf and smell the shawarma cooking or hear the call to prayer echoing through the city. Ring stores are a staple of these cities. Each ring has a meaning behind it — some can give you a long life, some can protect you, some can shield you from evil eyes. Some just look really cool.

One night, my dad went to pray by the holy burial grounds in Karbala. When he came

Sword Ring

back, he had a sword-like ring wrapped around his finger. It had an Arabic inscription that I didn’t understand, but I instantly knew I wanted one just like it. He saw the way I looked at the ring and tried giving it to me, but I thought we could find one in a shop later.

As we visited some ring shops in the days that followed, I frantically searched for the ring. Nothing compared. Eventually, I found one that looked similar and bought it. Though it wasn’t the same, I was happy to have something that matched my dad’s. I told him that I still thought his ring looked a lot cooler, and without a word, he took it off and

gave it to me. I tried telling him to keep it and that I was happy with mine, but he wouldn’t hear it. This is his form of love.

This has always been how he loves. If he saw me enjoying a snack, he’d come home the next day with a box of it. Years ago, I tried saving up for a laptop with birthday and holiday money. One birthday, I told him how close I was to saving enough and how I’d only need a few more holidays to get it. He bought it for me a few days later. I think my mom was mad he did that because she’d wanted to teach me the value of money — but this will always be how he shows his love.

I don’t see my dad cry often. One of the few times I have was because of a gift my brother and I got him for Father’s Day. It was summer, and the two of us had been riding our bikes around the neighborhood. My dad offhandedly mentioned that he wanted to ride with us, and we immediately thought it would make a great gift. When we surprised him with a bike, he cried tears of joy. We had gotten him gifts before, but I think this gift meant so much because we heard him. It was a small thing that he mentioned once

and we remembered. It was his form of love, and we gave it back to him.

Most of my rings have a story behind them; some match with my friends and others were gifts. But over time, it’s only this ring from my father that I consistently wear. It means more than the Arabic inscription it displays — to me it means love. It means love, even when it’s hard to give something up. It means love, even in the smallest of ways. It means to love through more than just listening, but hearing and remembering. The ring tells me to love fully, and in my hardest days, I hear and I remember.

Michael Kearney Melodrama Poster

A poster of the artwork from Lorde’s second studio album, Melodrama, is more than a sheet of paper to me. When I bought this poster during my freshman year, I wanted to decorate my dorm room with all my interests, and Melodrama was one of those. Bathed in blues and violets with golden highlights and red undertones, a painterly image of the restless, world-renowned singer stared into my eyes each day, her hand beside her face sinking into the pillow.

The Melodrama poster followed along as the years passed, and I continued listening to Lorde’s music. During my sophomore year, I was put into quarantine due to COVID and told to move to an on-campus apartment for over a week. To make everything feel less apocalyptic, I brought the poster with me. I stuck it to the bare wall above my head where I slept, like a landmark to lay my eyes on in times of boredom. After that experience, it traveled with me to every new living situation I found myself in.

It feels like Lorde has been a fly on the wall throughout my college years, watching all of

the good and bad memories unravel in every new room I’ve moved to. She heard every secret I told, every moment I wept, every laugh I cackled and every existential moment I experienced. She even stayed awake with me — especially during those sleepless nights.

Reflecting on my college experience as a whole and Melodrama as an album, the expansive pop record has acted as a life manual. Being able to listen to the experiences from her late teen years and early 20s on Melodrama and relating them to my own memories felt unreal — all of the late-night parties of “Sober,” the self-acceptances of “Liability (Reprise),” the tainted love memories of “Supercut,” the painful heartbreaks of “Hard Feelings” and the vengeful solitudes of “Writer In The Dark.” As I am now graduating, Melodrama acted as the precursor to my senior honors project, allowing me full control to interpret and illustrate each of the songs and further dissect the meaning behind her lyrics in a new, artistic way.

It feels weird to say how much an album can affect my everyday life and its relation to my choices. It’s even weirder to say that a poster with pretty colors and a slightly glossy look to it feels like home. Call me melodramatic, but it’s just the way that Lorde taught me to be: seeing life as a mosaic, with both heartfelt and heartaching moments intertwined together.

Elizabeth Lai

“What’s that in your teeth?”

People often stop me mid-conversation to ask this. “It’s my tooth gem!” I tell them excitedly. Some people nod in understanding or ask, bewildered, what a tooth gem is. Then I explain that it’s a small gem that I had glued to my tooth using UV resin.

They normally get it at that point, and I get reminded once again about one of the best purchases I’ve made. It was my first “big girl” splurge — I dropped almost $100 on this small, pink Swarovski crystal the summer I turned 18. It catches light beautifully, and the pink has a holographic tinge to it, sometimes reflecting purple or silver depending on the angle.

It’s been with me for the greater part of a year now — through the start of my freshman year of college — and it will finish with me as I move back home. I got it when my friends and I went to SoHo together for the

first time as a group. It was put in place at Live by the Sword, a one-stop shop where I could get my crystal and my friend could get a tattoo in the same place. In the end, she didn’t end up getting one, but I went through with getting the gem.

My tooth gem and I have been together ever since. It’s been with me through a lot of tooth brushing, swishing mouthwash, flossing and food chewing, soldiering through it all. I’m glad it’s still with me and will continue to be grateful for the days we have together. It’ll definitely be getting siblings in the future — I’m thinking twins…

Even though this isn’t one of the most sentimental or life-altering items, when it falls out, I’ll be sad — by sad, I mean highly distraught. I will think back to what we once had — mostly me constantly touching my tongue to the crystal — until it can be replaced. But at least for the moment, we’re living life stuck together.

Tooth Gem

Marie Lolis Comet

Finding an object that defined me was tough. It’s not that I own nothing, nor is it that my trinkets mean nothing to me — they do. I’ve worn the bracelets I got from church camp on my wrist since the pandemic began. I squeal at the figurines of anime characters on my dresser I paid way too much for. I pass loving glances at the Wolfie Stuff-A-Plush I waited in a long line for, despite painful period cramps.

While I could explain why I love and appreciate all of these objects, they don’t necessarily represent me. In wracking my brain for something, I thought back to what my younger self cherished. My younger self and her experiences define who I am now. And there is no one who can represent this better than my Comet the Reindeer Beanie Boo.

When I locked eyes with Comet at Justice, something instantly drew me to him. His brown tufts of fur, his big green eyes and his shiny red nose were nothing short of adorable. It may have been March 2011, but Comet was timeless to me — even though he’s Christmas themed. I clutched him every

night as I slept. I tucked him in bed and left him books to read when I went to school. I gave him one of the starring roles only plushies can have in the intense lore of my childhood.

I saw myself in Comet. I characterized him as daring and endearing — a reindeer who wanted to learn and see everything, while having his oddball Christmas quirks. It was all more the reason I took him on vacation with me to Greece. I couldn’t just leave him behind and deny him the right to see Greece with his big, beady eyes — plus I needed the comfort he brought. My tears were softened by hugging Comet tight as I was whisked through security, my dad waving from the other side. Comet stayed up with me through the night as I battled jet lag and paranoia of the creepy bugs in the old house I stayed in.

One morning while we were in Greece, I woke up, and Comet was nowhere to be found. I looked through the sheets, under my pillow, on the floor. Comet seemed to have vanished. My eyes darted to the lamp

on the floor beside the bed. I slowly leaned over and saw his brown fur. My hand trembled as I pulled him out. Here was Comet, the plushie I loved and treasured, with half of his face incinerated in a crescent shape from the light bulb. I screamed while Comet’s smiling face stared back at me half-charred. My mom and aunt ran down the stairs as I wailed, thinking there must be a rat or a bug. My Comet was now a terrifying monster, but I couldn’t let him be thrown away. With tears streaming down my face, I begged for Comet to be fixed. Luckily, my aunt is a seamstress and went to work trying to make Comet whole again. We left Greece with his face sewn back together and his smile intact.

As I think of Comet now, I know that his injury only made him more special to me. He is a survivor. Despite the horrors that befell him, Comet is still Comet. He was and still is my favorite plushie — still the hero in my stuffed animal lore, and he remained the one I cuddled with at night for many years. Even though he spends his days in the garage now, my Comet plushie still defines me. Comet is a reminder of my childlike love and joy. He’s proof of resilience even in the worst of times. No matter what I face in life, no matter what hurts me and leaves me scarred, I am still me. I still persevere even when it seems hopeless — all with a smile on my face.

Gwendolyn Loubier Photo Albums

to confidently make the right decision — and then worried that if I didn’t come up with something quick enough, everything would burn and I would be stuck with nothing. Thankfully, Judgment Day never came, and my house and belongings are doing just fine. As I’ve gotten older and understood that maybe this dilemma isn’t as important to my life as I once thought, it has been easier to come to a decision.

In high school, I started printing out all

photo album. I think a part of me was scared that somehow they’d get deleted off iCloud forever, but I also just liked an excuse to be crafty and organize things. I started with whichever albums were on sale at Michael’s, but now I’ve accumulated a collection of pre-owned photo albums — some of my favorite thrifting finds to date.

Of course, the albums themselves are not nearly as important as everything they hold. I have pictures starting from eighth grade

formal all the way to this past Christmas. The earlier ones are mostly of me and friends, taking selfies, hanging out at Honor Society ceremonies — stuff like that. But as time went on, I included more and more other details too: a polaroid of the way my backyard looked during the summer one year; notes on gum wrappers passed in class; a program from our high school production of Seussical the Musical and pretty much anything else thin enough to fit in the pages with my pictures.

Now, I also make capsule-like albums — mainly when the book isn’t big enough to keep a huge amount of pictures. I have some with memories of just one person, albums that take photos and details from a single summer or less organized ones with family photos from when I was little. The only constant in the layouts is keeping them chronological.

To be able to tangibly hold all of those memories and look through them is really important to me. It’s evidence that I have so

much to be grateful for. When I’m having a hard time, it’s nice to be able to focus on a collection of everything that I’ve loved enough to protect and showcase in these books. It’s important to me to have a collection of moments and experiences throughout my life, especially as I’ve gotten older and realize more every day that things change so quickly. I take a lot of pictures and even though I apologize when I pull my phone out, deep down I’m not really sorry. I can’t know when pictures will be all I have left of something — or someone. It gives me a sense of security, that I’ll always have this to keep them alive. The albums are full of everything I never want to lose.

If I had to save them in a fire, I don’t know if I could carry them all, or if I’d even consider them in such a dire situation. I have a couple of favorites. But if someone asks me in an icebreaker about my favorite hobby or thing I own, at least now I have an answer.

Antonio Mochmann

I am lucky to have friendships that feel like they’ll last lifetimes. In this lifetime, I have a necklace beaded by my best friend with a pendant gifted by my cousin.

My best friend, Julia, and I have been in each other’s lives for over a decade, and I’m certain we’ll continue to be there for each other for decades to come. It feels fated that we’re friends — not only did both of us grow up in Berlin with German fathers and Mexican-American mothers, our grandmothers met each other before we ever did. We bonded over juggling three languages and

cultural identities — especially our shared struggle of speaking broken Spanish while also being our families’ personal translators. She feels like home to me, and this necklace brings me closer to her when we’re not together. We haven’t lived in the same city for several years now, but whenever we see each other again for our biannual winter or summer break reunions, it feels like we were never apart.

I remember refusing to take the necklace off when Julia first gave it to me. The turquoise beads would sit on my neck as I rode

Pendant Necklace

my bike to school, swam in lakes and conquered mountains. Sometimes, I’d wake up with a weird sensation on my neck and realize the necklace had gotten all tangled up in my sleep. I’ll take the necklace off from time to time now to wear other jewelry, but it’s continued to hold a special place in my heart. Whenever I get compliments on the necklace, I love telling people that my best friend back home made it for me.

When I visited my family this past summer in Mexico, my cousin gifted me a pendant, which I decided to string on the necklace. It was our last day together, and we were making our way through the bustling town square of Aguascalientes when my cousin, Jhatziry, handed me the pendant — a pink flower encased in clear resin, attached to a black string. All I could think about was how beautiful it was – not just the pendant, but also how Jhatziry and I reconnected so easily, despite my last visit to Mexico being seven years ago.

When I wear the necklace I’m reminded of my family’s immense love and its boundless reach. It’s a testament to my friendship with Julia, unbroken by distance and time apart from each other. No matter where I find my self, pieces of home will always be hanging around my neck.

Elene Mokhevishvili Moona Lisa

Sleeping with a stuffed animal at age 20 is not something one proclaims with pride. However, when that stuffed animal has been with you through the trials and tribulations of a New York City public middle school, you not only proclaim her existence, but honor it.

My stuffed cow, Moona Lisa, has been a constant in my life since my sixth grade field trip to the YMCA’s Frost Valley Resort in rural New York. I took one look at her sitting on the top shelf of the tiny gift shop in her little gray YMCA t-shirt and knew I had to have her. Granted, this was before my dog, Coco, gouged Moona Lisa’s eyes out — although my dog isn’t the only one to blame for her wonky appearance. Years of sleeping with her in a chokehold have left her neck wobbly, and many washer and dryer cycles have matted her once unbelievably soft fur.

To others, Moona Lisa’s main appeal is her name. No one in my life refers to her as anything other than Moona Lisa — out of respect. But there was about a year of her existence with me where she remained unnamed. It wasn’t until I was in the hospital for my annual knee procedure that a nurse asked what my emotional support stuffed

cow was called. It took me all of 30 seconds to come up with her ridiculous name. I have no emotional or physical connection to the Mona Lisa, but I guess the name became a self-fulfilling prophecy, as she spends her days sitting solemnly in the middle of my bed.

I’ve been asked multiple times why I still keep her around, why I don’t just let her rest and sleep empty-handed or just replace her. But how do you let go of someone who has seen you evolve past your adolescent self? Someone who has supported you through all your difficult transitions, like graduating high school, moving into your freshman dorm or even shaving your head? She’s been there for me as I’ve changed — not always for the better — so who am I to throw her out because her neck can’t support her head anymore? Is it right to throw someone away just because they don’t look the same as they did the first day you got them? How would anyone be able to see all the years you’ve spent loving them if they remained exactly the same? If I wanted Moona Lisa to stay untouched, I would’ve left her on that gift shop shelf. Instead, I decided to take her home and change her forever.

Jane Montalto

I have always been sensitive. Each year in elementary school, I used to cry the night before the last day of classes because I was going to miss my teacher. To this day, I often find myself in moments where my emotions overflow — times when everything has felt like all too much, making me scream into my pillow if I can’t figure out how else to cope. When it isn’t appropriate to cry, I have to take deep breaths to ground myself and hold back the tears that well and make my eyes glossy. These tears aren’t always because I am sad. Sometimes, they are happy or reminiscent. More often than not, they are angry tears — but sad tears come frequently as well. I can experience so many emotions within the scope of a single day.

I think that I am very in tune with my emotions, sometimes to a fault. I can spend hours dwelling on a particular feeling or thought that’s plaguing me, overanalyzing to the point of insanity. It helps me understand — it gives me clarity.

Though it’s a bit cliche, I would say I wear my heart on my sleeve.

Heart Necklace

My friends know so much about me and how I feel, and that dialogue is reciprocated. It feels so human to be emotional, and I feel less alone in my emotions when I am able to share them with others. The emotions and details shared in my closest relationships make them feel richer and strengthen the connections.

I feel the same way when I listen to music, precisely picking apart each lyric. I love how musicians and artists are able to share emotions that might feel so personal to them, yet poignantly describe feelings I’ve also had. It’s a humbling realization that every emotion has been felt before — nothing is purely unique.

I am reminded of all of this when I put on the necklace I bought myself almost two years ago. It has a jewel heart pendant with a striking sword pierced through its center. The image of a heart with a sword through it feels like a representation of myself. When I wear that necklace, I am leading with my heart and showcasing it for everyone to see. The jewel is bright red and beautiful — the human experience, a rollercoaster of

emotions, is beautiful too.

The jewel heart represents the innocence and tenderness that define a sensitive person. The sword contrasts with that — it’s something that can hurt, something that can kill. It stabs through your heart. Although that can seem painful, it describes how it feels to have all of these emotions. It is also the representation of strength — the bravery it takes to be an emotional person.

The amount I’ve worn this necklace has ebbed and flowed depending on when I need it most. I wore it almost every day of my first se-

mester after I transferred colleges, and now I wear it every so often. It makes me proud of the person I am — someone who is in tune with the emotions of myself and those around me.

I think some people can look at being sensitive as a weakness. To me, it is what gives me strength every day. Who am I if not emotional?

Kaan Ozcan

My Nikon Coolpix S6500. Aside from being able to flex and say I take artsy photographs, the camera means a lot to me.

It was gifted to me by my photography teacher, one of the only teachers at my high school who made me feel like I could actually do anything with myself. I was never really good at photography, but he allowed me to experiment and grow — even if the result was bad — and never discouraged me. Throughout high school, I didn’t feel confident in my abilities to do anything, but having a creative space to express myself and build my confidence helped me to feel more secure in places outside of art.

Being able to capture a moment in one photo and have a memory or a feeling or a story associated with it is one of the most special things about photography. Made in 2013, this camera isn’t very user-friendly and each photo takes five seconds to process (and usually needs multiple retakes). Though that might deter some from using this camera, it’s part of the challenge for me. There’s something so special about having limited space for photos and knowing it’s not as simple as tapping a button on your phone. It

Coolpix Camera

means I only capture the moments I actually care about. While I love being able to take a photo of whatever I want, whenever I want, being forced to only photograph what’s important to me changes the game and makes me really consider what’s worth taking up the little storage I have on my camera.

Aside from the corny feelings I have about my camera, I love the way it takes photos. The extremely bright flash with a touch of graininess gives the photos a sense of warmth and character that you can’t get from a phone. The way my camera shoots is similar to the ones my parents used when I was a kid, and being able to recreate that nostalgic look in new photos brings them to life for me.

Because of my bad memory, photography helps me to remember places, people and feelings I used to have, eternalizing a moment that could otherwise be forgotten. This is something that I don’t take for granted, because without my camera, I would have misremembered a lot of things in my life.

Kaitlyn Schwanemann Tiara

I can’t remember the day or even the month, but on some cold night(s) during my first semester at Stony Brook, my friends and I stayed up for two days straight. It might have even been longer. None of us felt great afterwards — my friend Iman even gave me the flu at some point, and the toll on my body left me incapacitated for days. It was worth it though — I came home for winter break that year with a shiny, hot pink plastic tiara.

Staying awake for 48 hours probably sounds like a nightmare. In any other circumstances, it would have been. But I graduated from a small-town high school, and then went off to a university with almost 26,000 students. I don’t want to lament about how I didn’t fit in at my high school — no one really does, do they? It was difficult, though. I went through a lot of phases. I dyed my hair about 10 times, from blonde to pink to green, then back to blonde again. I drastically changed my taste in music every few months — my top two artists a few years ago were Lana Del Rey and System of a Down. Sometimes I was devoid of personality entirely — if I was a blank slate, I could simultaneously be a part of every clique and none of them, all at the same time.

I still didn’t have friends during my first few months at Stony Brook, but in November, I met a group of people. I didn’t necessarily feel like I fit in, and there was no instant wave of relief. Instead, the feeling of belonging came over me gradually. None of

us fit in, but we didn’t fit in together. Belonging was refreshing — so much so that we stayed up together for days on end: traipsing around the woods of Suffolk County, browsing the behemoth that is the Main Stacks, or even fingerpainting cheap bed sheets with abstract smears of discordant colors.

One night, I stayed home to finish an assignment while they drove to the store to pick up cookie dough we planned to make in the Irving Hall kitchen. I later joined the group to bake our cookies, and out of the shopping bag came a handful of plastic tiaras. I still don’t know where or why they bought the tiaras — I figured they were just something that all of us could share, something we could all have in common. Adorned with our new tiaras and a drowsiness that weighed us down — though not enough to go to sleep — we blasted music far past quiet hours and baked three batches of pink frosted sugar cookies.

The friends I made that semester taught me things I didn’t know that I needed to know: how to pull out a tick, which Java Monster flavors are worth buying, how to overcome the flu in time for a final exam. Most importantly, they taught me that relationships are not about what you have in common — they’re about having fun.

My pink tiara still sits atop a stack of books on my desk where I can look at it every morning and every night. It reminds me to do two things: sleep well and have fun.

Esmé Warmuth

I learned guitar by playing my dad’s old acoustic during the early stages of the COVID-19 pandemic. I didn’t know it at the time, but studies have shown that playing guitar increases serotonin and decreases anxiety. For me, it provided a lifeline during a time of uncertainty and fear. The pandemic made it feel easy to lose sight of landmarks for the future, but being able to get up and practice guitar every day gave me something to work toward and fill my time with.

When stores eventually reopened well after the onset of the pandemic, I was able to buy my own acoustic guitar to carry with me so I wouldn’t have to share with my dad anymore. It felt like a real leap of faith in myself

to commit to buying an instrument coming out of the pandemic. I wondered if the guitar would bring me the same comfort that it had during isolation now that I was back in school. However, as I continued to play and improve, it was incredibly gratifying to feel that I’d used such a difficult time to learn a skill that I could carry with me years after the initial weeks of pandemic isolation.

Nowadays, my guitar is a friend that I can carry with me wherever I go. Just as it helped me through quarantine, I’ve found that it continues to be a tangible life raft for me to return to when I’m feeling most overwhelmed.

Acoustic Guitar

As time passes, I’ve found memories col lecting within my guitar case — both hap py nights spent with friends playing our fa vorite songs and quiet nights alone, trying to perfect especially difficult melodies.

When I was leaving home after high school, my guitar became an even closer companion for me. I knew that wherever I went, I would be able to sit down on the floor and play a familiar melody. New furniture takes time to get used to, but a well-loved song always fills a space the same way.

The guitar has come to feel like a family member in a way. It visits home with me and always settles easily back into my chil dhood house. Family members like to pick it up and absently play a few notes just to get reacquainted. As much as it fills spa ces, it takes the feeling of spaces with it too. A room full of relatives, friends or the comfort of home. Emotions seem to sink into its strings and vibrate back out whe never I play.

I can’t imagine traveling without this gui tar. I don’t know how I would’ve made it through the pandemic without it, and I’m constantly grateful that I found my dad’s old acoustic when I did. It’ll always be spe cial to me as the instrument that got me through so many changes and so many happy, music-filled hours that otherwise would’ve been quiet.

Keating Zelenke

I bought an empty ostrich egg from a woman on Craigslist in the spring of 2021. It is maybe 6 or 7 inches tall, and it has two holes opposite each other on the top and bottom. If you’ve never held an ostrich egg before, it’s cool to the touch, and not perfectly smooth. Rather, the surface of the egg is covered in pockmarks, all about equidistant from one another. Nature is amazing.

I don’t know where this ostrich egg originated, although I do know that one of its previous owners ate its contents in an egg scramble at least 50 years ago because he thought ostrich eggs were especially nutritious. I suppose that based on their sheer size, they probably are. This man then pas-

sed the eggshell on to a sister or a cousin, who then passed it on to another relative, who in turn passed it on like a game of hot potato. None of them wanted to throw the eggshell out, although none of them really saw a reason to keep it in their homes either.

Somewhere along this line of inheritance, the eggshell fell into the possession of a woman who now lives in an expensive-looking house in Roslyn, New York. And after this decades-long journey, that woman decided it was worth $25 — or best offer. We negotiated down to $15 — evenly split between me and a boy I met at The Press. On the 45-minute-long drive home from Roslyn, we decided this eggshell — older than both

Ostrich Egg

of us combined — would be named Sigmund “The Concussion” VonSkrambel.

I bought a lot of strange things in the spring of 2021. I bought a Furby for way too much money. I bought multiple hats for one of the members of The Press who has since graduated, simply because he very loudly and proudly loved hats. I bought a bedazzled wine glass that reads “40 AND SEXY” and a very mischievous-looking ceramic chef with two compartments in his ass for cooking utensils. I once wrote in a story for a journalism class that I bought two porcelain dolls at an estate sale “as a joke.” My professor highlighted this sentence and asked if I gave them to someone. Otherwise, what was the joke? No, Professor Virag, I did not give them to someone else. I guess the joke was on me.

I know this all sounds very financially irresponsible, but most of these things I actually only paid half the price for. That boy I met at The Press was paying the other half, and we were going along together to every estate sale, moving sale and tag sale that we could. If there wasn’t anything good that weekend,

we did a thrift shop circuit — hitting three thrift shops in one day. And if it was too late in the day to leave the office, we scrolled through the “free stuff” and “collectibles” tabs on Craigslist together.

The ostrich egg was probably our most obscure purchase, although in all likelihood I am forgetting something. After all, on May 2 it was two years since we adopted Sigmund. He’s spent some time in an underwear drawer for safe keeping, and some time on a microphone stand, but for most of the last two years, he’s been perched on a roll of packing tape in the Press office.

A few hours after that boy and I got home from Roslyn with our new family member, we also told each other how we really felt about one another. This past June, Sigmund came with us when we moved in together.