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Catharsis
(Courtesy of Shutterstock)
B
elow is an excerpt from Alessandra Corine Silapan’s essay of the same title, which won second place in the Creative category of The Harvard Crimson Global Essay Competition (HCGEC) 2024. Alessandra is currently a student at Binus School Simprug in South Jakarta.
Entry I: Mom
Jan. 25, 2006
Sunrise, cinnamon.
Breakfast, baby blue.
Morning, mom.
Today marks three years without you here; without the smell of your godsent apple tarts painting the cool morning air with a gentle, cinnamon-brown hue, or the scratchy sensation I felt on my lips when you wiped crisp, golden crumbs off my face with the rough corner of that ancient, (originally navy) baby blue apron that you refused to dispose of no matter how much dad whined about it. With you, it only took a kiss on the cheek to change his mind, and two to make his dimples tremble. But his sweet grins are empty now, and his green eyes remain hollow. Half of his soul must have departed with you, mom – and the other half, perhaps, is still clinging onto your originally navy blue apron that he now thanks the heavens you didn't throw away. He wears it every morning when he tries to bake your apple tarts. It barely shields him from the great flour explosions or the mixer malfunctions, but I guess he finds solace in holding close the only fragments of you that he has left. I, on the other hand, have been living a lie. While dad has been embracing the remnants of your joyful spirit, I’ve been trying to run away from my own two feet. I can’t let go, mom. Sunrises still smell like cinnamon, breakfasts still look baby blue, and mornings still feel like you.
