When I was a little girl I would sit under the big old oak tree in our front yard with my Daddy. We would sit together, he against the tree trunk, me against him, and he would make up stories about Ik or Bik, Bok or Boo, or some other entity we both understood without understanding.
I would gaze up into the leaves and sky as I listened to the nonsensical plot unfold . . . and the words would eventually slow . . . and soften . . . until they were replaced with the song of Daddy’s snoring. I would nudge him awake, “Daddy, you fell asleep. What happens next?” And the story would continue with no rhyme, no reason, but full of the silly sweet love that is shared between a Daddy and a Daddy’s Girl.
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