Sillage

I was putting on my stud butterfly earrings as I hurried up to my little study area. I was more concerned about how it would look with my collared and pleated white shirt and brown plaid skirt, in other words, my uniform; I wanted to make a good impression, especially because it was the first day of my face-to-face classes in seventh grade. After twice glancing in the mirror and squeaky-wiping my black shoes, it all came down to one thing: spraying perfume. For the first time in a long time. Midnight Amber Glow was the name of the aroma, and it smelled like vanilla bourbon. I rubbed the mist on my wrists for a few minutes to see if it was the correct one, and whether it felt right. My alarm went off at 6:10 a.m., indicating that it was time to leave. I just sprayed it all over my body, without bothering anymore about how it smelled.

The commute to school was filled with a massive concern right after I said “Bayad po. Sa Biñang 2nd po, estudyante,” split into minute bits; if I forgot anything important, if I’d arrive on time at 7:15 a.m., if my face mask was worn right, and if I smelled decent. In the perfume trade, “sillage” refers to the aroma trail that a perfume leaves behind after it dissipates. Because of my worrying, I began to fantasize about having a scent trail—a sillage. I would like to make a mark. I want my perfume to be so memorable that everybody who smells it will remember me.

The same is true of death. I frequently consider what I will leave behind when I die. It is conceivable you have considered it as well. Or, perhaps not about death, but about what you will leave to your high school alma mater when you depart for college, whether you will ever make it to those tarpaulins displayed for alumni board passers. On the rocky and jerky roads of Bulacan and in the public parks of Manila, I pondered if I would ever make a difference there, or if I would make a difference someplace else, somewhere I don’t know yet, somewhere I don’t know I will be walking into, somewhere I don’t know I am destined to be.

We are plainly terrified of making incorrect decisions in a life full of anxiety about every decision we will make. And we’re frightened that we’ll leave the world empty or deficient in doing the right things. One of the many regrettable decisions we made was when your instructor asked a tough question and your classmate got it right—the right answer that stopped you from raising your quivering palms, frightened that it would be incorrect and you would be ashamed. I’d like to believe that if we keep in mind that death will come sooner than we expect, that’s when we’ll take chances—to live life to the fullest, even if it comes with a handful of regrets.

When I got home from school after an almost-hour commute, notifications from people I’d met and subsequently became friends with popped up. After much deliberation, I concluded that it wasn’t the earrings, my perfectly pressed suit, or the scent. Perhaps there was something else, something I had before walking down the marathon-like steps and taking that icy shower. Throughout the academic year, my brain was constantly like the first day’s sky—hazy, and at some time, there would be a dash full of colors. I pushed myself to take risks, both nervously and gladly. If it doesn’t work out, there will be no acting and pretending that I’m still happy, since I finally, after a long time, am. I attempted to live every day as though the zombie apocalypse will occur tomorrow. I survived, I lived, thanks to my family and friends who join me in my daily zombie-like decisions.

Purchase the book you’ve been wanting to read since seeing it on BookTok; reply to that Instagram story; purchase the pricey watercolor to paint the Boracay beach with the orange-tinted breathtaking sunset; contact a buddy you’ve been wanting to reconnect with; experiment with a new study approach; and go message on your crush’s NGL link.

The question is whether we will leave a sillage. Maybe for others to take a second glance or go to the nearest boutique, but more to remind ourselves of the trail we picked that would lead to a happy and flowering existence that smells like vanilla bourbon or even midnight amber glow. Finally, we will not be afraid of death since we took risks that made the journey home light and mist-like.

Xyryll Dagooc Gregorio, 14, is an incoming Grade 8 student at Sto. Niño Academy, Bocaue, Bulacan. When she’s not studying, she likes to dabble in literature and films.