My earliest memory is of the river in my hometown. This river was stunning and transparent, winding its way through the countryside with bamboo groves offering shade along its edges. During that time, my world was confined to the azure mountains of my province and the glistening lake visible in the distance among some ruins. The lake resembled a mirror, with its surface glistening and decorated with graceful sails. In this phase of my life, I had an immense passion for storytelling and firmly held onto the belief that every word written in books was factual.
Although my parents were strict and punished me for even the smallest lie, they also urged me to prioritize my education and actively engage with literature. I have clear memories of my early experiences with letters. These memories are particularly vivid because they involve moments when I would slip on our house’s polished floor, which was treated with banana leaves to create a smooth surface similar to that of skilled ice skaters.
Although it was challenging for me to ascend a chair, I cautiously descended the stairs, gripping each baluster tightly. In our household, as well as throughout our town, petroleum remained unfamiliar and quinine had not yet been encountered. Furthermore, the streets of my town had never witnessed the passing of a carriage, which in my perception epitomized delight and liveliness.
One night, when everyone at home was already asleep, and all the lights in the globes (36) had been blown out using a curved tin tube, which I found to be the most exquisite and amazing toy, my mother and I remained awake beside the only light in all Philippine houses that burned all night and went out at dawn, waking people up with its cheerful hissing. At that time, my mother was still young. After taking a bath, she let her hair down to dry, and it trailed half a handbreadths on the floor, so she tied its end.
She taught me how to read using a very rare book called Amigo De ISO Inso. The book was an old edition that had lost its cover. My diligent sister had covered it again by pasting a thick blue paper on its back, which was leftover from a cloth wrapper. My mother was clearly annoyed by my pitiful reading because she couldn’t understand Spanish and couldn’t help me make sense of the phrases. She took the book away from me and scolded me for drawing on its pages. I had drawn figures with extended legs and arms, resembling a cross. After scolding me, my mother began reading and asked me to follow her example.
When my mother had the ability to see, she had excellent reading skills, could recite, and was skilled at creating verses. During many Christmas vacations, she would correct my poems and provide insightful feedback. I listened to her with admiration as a child, fascinated by how effortlessly she made the verses and the melodious phrases she could extract from pages that were challenging for me to read and understand. Perhaps I grew tired of hearing sounds that held no meaning for me.
Due to my inherent distractions, I paid little attention to the reading and instead focused on the lively flame, where small moths whimsically fluttered. Be it what it may, I may have yawned as my disinterest became apparent to my mother. Sensing this, she ceased her reading and addressed me, saying, “I will share a very beautiful story with you; please pay attention.” Upon hearing the word “story,” my eyes widened, anticipating a new and magnificent tale. I glanced at my mother, who searched through the book as if she were seeking something valuable, and I eagerly prepared myself to listen. Little did I suspect that within that aged book, which I read without comprehension, would lie captivating and enchanting stories. My mother commenced by narrating the story of the young and old moths, meticulously translating it into Toggle for my comprehension. As she began with the first verses, my focus intensified to the extent that I turned towards the light, fixating on the moths flitting around it. The timing of this story could not have been more perfect. My mother emphasized and commented extensively on the advice given by the elderly moth, directing them towards me as if to imply their relevance to my own life. In that moment, her presence seemed otherworldly, and the light appeared increasingly magnificent. The flame burned brighter, captivating me further to the point where I even envied the carefree existence of those insects playing in its magical glow. The notion that those who succumbed met their demise in the oil did not terrify me.While my mother read, I listened anxiously, finding the fate of the two insects intriguing. The flickering light caused its golden tongue to flutter, leading a scorched moth to fall into the oil. There, it flapped its wings briefly before ultimately perishing.
My mother finished the fTABLE, while I was preoccupied with the fate of a young moth. The moth’s movement seemed distant, as if it were moving far away along with the flame. This made my mother’s voice sound eerie and solemn. The moth, although young and full of illusions, ended up dead. My mother warned me not to imitate the moth’s disobedience, as it would lead to getting burned. I do not recall if I replied, made a promise, or cried in response to her words. All I remember is that it took me a while to fall asleep.
Experiencing that story opened my eyes to new things. Moths took on a greater significance for me, no longer just small bugs. They possessed the ability to communicate and provide guidance, similar to my mother. The light became even more captivating, radiant, and irresistible. I started comprehending why moths were attracted to lights. The wisdom and cautions echoed gently in my ears. What troubled me the most was the downfall of those who dared, yet deep inside, I didn’t blame them. Despite my mother’s love and worry, she didn’t achieve the desired result.
Despite the passage of many years, the child has grown into a man who has engaged in various activities such as plowing and sailing. He has also had the opportunity to travel across famous foreign rivers and admire their abundant streams. The steamship has been his means of transportation over seas and oceans, allowing him to reach mountains with perpetual snow that are much taller than those in his hometown. Through his experiences, he has acquired valuable knowledge far surpassing what his mother taught him, yet he still possesses a childlike heart. This man firmly believes that light is the most exquisite thing in existence and that it is worthy for one to sacrifice their life for it.
