The Moon’s a Balloon

My grandmother, it turned out when we read her will, was a princess from a faraway magical land that you could reach by opening a locked door without unlocking it. So all the stories she had told me when I was a kid were true (except for the ones that ended with morals – I think she got those from a magazine).

There, you could make the sun go away by shooting it with air-gun pellets, and the moon had a little basket hanging from it which you could ride in. My grandmother played for a improv philosophy team that held the philosophy championship title for 30 years running.

She spent much of her time helping her father knit a tapestry of a particularly amusing judgment he’d made when he was 7. Her best friend was a cloned capybara that had donated its wings to the ‘cherubs in need’ foundation. Her nanny was a tiny little hummingbird that commuted seven miles of palace to tend to her.

Apparently she came to our world looking for logic because her world didn’t have any. I laughed when I read that.