She asked me not to go into her room until she said it was OK.
She said: “You may enter now.”
She was sitting on her pink chair, a pink-jeweled crown atop her head. Long, brown hair flowing at her shoulders.
“Hulll-ooh, I am the Queen,” she said, smiling.
“And, I am your humble servant,” I said, bowing.
She is 6.
And this is the throne of her own making.