When the stars come out

My Grandad has never had a way with words; I suppose the grief was too much for him. In any case, little Chloe, my six year old cousin, still wasn't satisfied with his blunt response, her curiosity persistent, a memory that won't go away. I am only seventeen, but I know what to do... 
...I take her hand, so delicate, she fits into my palm, like a locket on the edge of my collarbone. She looks at me when I finally stop, all the expectancy that only a child is blessed enough to possess... 
...We are in my Grandad's front garden, the air making my skin goose-pimply, her teeth chattering. She is light in my hands as I scoop her up, settle her on my shoulders. She swings her legs, clasps my hands, happy with this arrangement, as though the small of my neck were her throne... 
...I point to the sky with my nose, not wanting to let go of even one hand. I know she is looking up too... 
...The stars are out, posing like models on a catwalk. One stood out from the rest, because there's always one that shines brighter. And then I answer her question, in a way my Grandad never could... 
"There's your Daddy Chloe."