Daisy doesn't always let me into her imaginary world. Sometimes I accidentally intrude into an elaborate set-up on her bedroom floor and she shouts "Don't come in!", catching me before I crash into a universe of tiny animals and scraps of fabric and cotton balls.
But this week she needed help. She can't drive a car; she doesn't own any buckets; she had no way of choosing a safe spot to cut lots and lots of daisies unless she got me on board.
Daisies. "Because my name means Daisy. So I want a lot of them." She brought three pairs of scissors and two buckets, and we parked in the parking lot of the Apostolic Pentecostal Tabernacle and cut flowers in the ditch.