These are Day’s-Eyes that open diurnally but close for night or rain, shrinking pink-edged among garden grass to reopen to the sun. Yellow-centred, leaning to the light, they emulate the shining of the day and claim their name ever and again: Daisies to you and me, Day’s-Eyes to long ago, garden treasures to tiny hands.
My first baby discovered a daisy whilst crawling in the garden. He pulled at it with damp exploratory grasp and gave it to me for my gratitude and kisses. I watched him making up his tiny mind that he would do so again, and sure enough he did—proudly presenting another day’s daisy, another and another, crumpled each in turn inside his fist.
An autumn and a winter intervened, and time turned my crawler into a toddler and talker, busy every day with new ideas and new words, eager to re-explore his garden on a fine spring morning. I heard him calling me, high-pitched with anticipated pleasure, but I never guessed that he could have remembered—from half a lifetime away—until he gave to me a daisy, from the sunshine to my happiness, for kisses and cuddles of thanks.