Not long ago, my mom's newfound urgency to unveil our Cameroonian roots emerged, just this year. I grapple with a sense of nonexistence, questioning the sincerity of this revelation. It's a paradox—once discarded as inconsequential. I find it hard to establish a genuine connection; it comes off as elusive, lingering beyond the reach of learning.
A friend had a question while I went on this tangent—why not embrace and learn my own culture? Yet, honesty reveals that even in the purest of knowledge, understanding my roots still eludes me. The skipped journey to Cameroon, a start of something denied.
In the quiet hours, unexpected connections unfolded between us. Vulnerability, like a delicate thread, wove its way through our conversations at odd times. I didn't anticipate it, but there we were— you, warm yet reserved, and I, nervously navigating a profound shift. That night, in the warmth of each other's arms, everything made sense. Though vulnerability can feel cruel, in that moment, it felt right. Now, in your absence, I miss not just you, but the comfort of our shared presence.
