Daniela De Vera contemplates the bittersweet sensation of shifting homes, losing contact with one culture only to find belonging in another.
I’ve forgotten the taste of rambutan.
I once mistook it for lychee when my relatives asked me if I had missed any foods after moving countries.
“I miss the lychees.”
I realised after the words left my mouth that it didn’t sound quite right. The words fell out, unsure of their sound as it rolled off my tongue, unfamiliar with the after taste it left in my mind. I begin to describe the times in which my brother and I would walk, with Mama in the middle holding our hands tightly, the gentle click of her heels against the concrete taking us to school. I speak of the trees that shaded us from the heat and the fruits it bore, ready to be consumed once they fell from the branches, their hairy exterior making the peeling process rather tedious.
My relatives tell me that it’s a rambutan I’m describing.
Upon reminiscing I realise, similar to a rambutan, I have fallen from my roots and lie alongside my family and friends in a different environment. The stem that rooted me to my culture and my country could not withstand the weight of my being, snapping off for me to take the fall. Although, my being remains a combination of what and where I once was.
The ground that I reside on is where I will remain, amongst others who have outweighed their roots, letting the wind roll their beings to some place where they will call home.
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