Pursuing Happiness by Lynnsay

Pursuing Happiness by Lynnsay - December 2022 Scholarship Essay

I only drink milkshakes at midnight.

As an adolescent, I would often be awake far past my bedtime. My grandfather and I would tiptoe our way into the kitchen and delve into the freezer until we found his favorite French Vanilla ice cream. Together, we would sip homemade milkshakes under the azure sheen cast by the moon, seeking amusement, but unearthing our most beloved tradition.

On days when my cheeks turned puffy with tears, it was how he consoled me. When my chest swelled with pride, it was how we celebrated, our glass cups clinking in festivity. When I awoke, utterly terrified, it was how he eased my nightmares.

My parents had never been the most reliable, so my grandfather was who I often sought out when I needed someone to lean on. To me, he was a symbol of longevity, an impregnable pillar capable of hoisting the sky onto his shoulders.

I had thought he would be by my side forever, but the fates decreed that our montage of memories would be short-lived.

His passing was the catalyst for the end of the world. Before I knew it, my grandfather’s photo on our shrine was beginning to replace my memories of him, the smell of incense coalescing with the despondence of the mourning, Vietnamese prayers chanted like lilting requiems throughout the house. I took shelter in the back rooms, away from pitying eyes and halfhearted condolences. I filled my calendar so I would not have any time to grieve, but no matter how busy I was, I could not deny the sorrow that stemmed from his absence. The persimmons we once picked turned rotten. The milkshakes we once made tasted bitter on my tongue. Red spider lilies sprouted from the ground, thriving in the sun that did not shine for me.

Time stopped. I froze, motionless amidst a crowd of marathon runners. My wounds festered, but I did not scream out in agony. Instead, I wore brighter clothing, engaged in witty conversation, and forced myself to smile more often, like a raven disguised as the sun. Healing did not begin until a year after my grandfather had left the world.

On a day. I do not remember well, I thought of him and wailed more desperately than I had ever allowed myself to do. Salty secrets streamed down my cheeks and the rain descended softly from the sky as though the heavens were weeping with me. Why had I spent so long silencing my own lamentations? Why was I so fearful of my own melancholy? Why was it so hard to bear witness to memories I once adored?

I wished to cherish those recollections, not forget them.

My pillar was gone, so I learned to stand on my own. To push forward. To treasure the remembrances of all that I had lost, even if they hurt. To continue living even without his presence in my atmosphere.

Instead of evading my past, I began chasing after my future. Reminiscence became my favorite pastime, relishing the history that had become unreachable. My new dream was a life with few regrets, to dance in the pouring rain, to give my all into everything I dreamed of, and to spend my lifetime surrounded by those I loved.

I believe, even now, that my future self deserves only the fondest of memories.

That is why, when the frogs start croaking outside my bedroom window or the moon illuminates the sky, I still seek solace in the bittersweetness of a milkshake. It reminds me of my salad days spent picking persimmons and reaching for French Vanilla ice cream. It reminds me of my grandfather.