You know what they say about little girls and their daddies: that they think that daddy hung the moon? Well, QQ has plenty of evidence to back up this "illusion". She may not have seen him - not with her own eyes - hang the moon. Not yet, anyway.
But she has seen plenty else that is wondrous.
On some mornings, Daddy brings her the still-warm milk of twelve virgin yaks that roam the flower-strewn fields of the highest mountain in the world.
On some afternoons, she wakes from the drowsy slumber of a summer nap to find him hammering together the wings of 132 platinum-winged butterflies, crafting a most delicate fan to cool her heat-dampened brow on the hottest of days.
On a chill evening, she sometimes hears a clackety-clack, and peeks round the corner to find him working the shuttle that spins the wool of 12 cashmere goats, each fed on a pure diet of creme fraiche and wild strawberries, in order to weave a fragrant blanket that will keep her warm and dry on even the most blustery of nights.
Q has seen her daddy wrestle an angry bullock for her. She has watched him catch a bonefish in the salt flats of the Bahamas with only his bare hands and a pair of cheap sunglasses, just to hear the rusty tinkle of her laugh. She has seen him swordfight with a pirate king on the high seas to defend her honour, and riddle the Sphinx in the Egyptian desert to ensure her safe passage.
Her daddy has carried her through the darkest corridors of a stormy night on his broad shoulders, singing the whole way. He has swum through tunnels of obsidian to find her an ounce of fresh water from a subterranean well. He has charmed the sirens themselves with his confounding lyrics, and turned the tide back on itself so that she might walk without fear on dry sand.
And then, the other night, he hung - well, not the moon - but the earth and stars and the four corners of the compass for her. He hung them himself, with his bare hands (in spite of the searing heat) and now it hangs high above her head when she lies in her bed, twinkling and generating sweet, fragrant breezes to caress her skin as she sleeps.
So, maybe he didn't hang the moon...not yet. But that could happen any day now.
Twelve Days of Boots: Day 9 by The Pioneer Woman
5 hours ago