Within The Bottle Of Daisies

When I had only been a child, roughly around six years old with sleek, raven hair falling past my chubby fingertips, an adorable, round nose, and a milky complexion, I had hopped my way towards my resplendent mother, who, despite having worn bedraggled clothing and conspicuous, yellow gloves two sizes larger than her actual hands, emitted a warmth that of a mother's, which, to me, made her all the way more beautiful through my eyes. The breeze of April's afternoon caused her wavy, light brown hair resembling the shade of a coffee bean to dance behind her, like strands freely dancing to the winds. We stood in her garden of greens, dotted with various hues on different locations, but on this particular hour, all was bathed in the soft amber light of the sinking sun. It produced prominent shadows of black behind the plants, behind my standing mother whose back faced the sun, and behind me, eager for her arms to wrap around my fragile, little body, before hoisting me up from the ground, holding me against her hip. She did this countless of times and it felt like home, like having your most valued teddy bear hug you, like every single disquietude within you was erased to a naught. My mother didn't lift me off the soil, but I had not cared, unaware, nescient even, that she would never pick me up ever again. Oblivious that my mother cradling me in her arms two hours ago had been the last. In retrospect, I should've asked for her to carry me in her arms, even when her clothes were smirched after tending to her robust garden, even when she was donning the gloves I disliked. Instead, I asked her a question. "Mommy, while I was at Grandma's house, someone knocked on the door. It was her neighbor. And Grandma said, 'dayon.' What does dayon mean?" The corners of my mother's heart-shaped lips twitched to form itself into a smile. "Ivy, would you like to hear a story?" "Is it about fairies?" "No, my dear." "Mermaids?" My mother chuckled, shaking her head. "No, Ivy. The story is about how our town was found many, many years back." She gently lowered herself on a rock, the gray surface smooth, right beside a pot of croton plant, before her hand patted the even smaller rock on her other side. "Okay." I complied, taking a seat. "Before stores lined our streets, before houses were built, before our park had been created for families to bond and have fun, our town had been just a nowhere and yet a single home stood. Inside, an old, calm couple resided. Even if their children continuously attempted to goad them into moving to another location, they didn't change their minds. The beach close to their house was beautiful and none had discovered it. Of course, they were more than willing to share the information, but there were no neighbors to tell and the nearest house was twenty-five minutes away. "One day, a young couple arrived on their doorstep, apparantly lost after cycling too far from the previous town. They had asked directions, but heavy rain had stopped them from returning home. When they requested to stay for the night, the old woman had delightedly exclaimed, 'dayon! Dayon! Ayaw lang kaulaw.' The couple spoke Bisaya, the language of people in Visayas. Translating it, dayon means enter. The couple had been very hospitable, so kind towards the teenagers that, two days later, they returned and announced their house to be built adjacent to the old couple's after their wedding. The old couple had been happy to finally have neighbors. "Slowly, through the years, people built their houses around the old couple's due to their hospitality and benevolence, as well as their lack of selfishness when they shared the wondrous beach's location. When they visited one another, or when travelers stopped by, the people would say, 'dayon!', the way the old couple would. The people were known for their hospitality and warmth across towns that, eventually, the population slowly rose and word spread. When a particular person from a village had asked what their location was called, the old couple decided on the name Dayonan, a reference to the phrase they often said. And up to this day, people still say, 'dayon!' here in our town, even if none of us are fluent in Bisaya." The moment that had followed after was filled by my silence. The story, much to my dismay, had no trace of fantasy, lacked the existence of creatures far too mysterious for a human's knowledge, and as a child with an imagination set to alter ordinary things into exceptional entities, I had perceived my mother's narrative as vapid. Yet, as I recall it now in the years after, the origin of our town was anything but vapid. For I, myself, had resembled much of the old couple in the story. Too hospitable, too kind, too fond, even to strangers. Those have served as my compass which had guided me towards Ien, towards a remarkable individual with soft hair and a cute smile, towards a boy who sang songs of Owl City and Cavetown to me while we bathe in moonlight. Towards a person whose arms had became my home. And mine, his. Even as we part.