IV of V. Daisy Duck
She knew him as her father.
Perhaps he did not create her, perhaps he did not piece her together and speak her name first and perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. It is none of those things that matters at all. When she would look at him, eyes alight, she only saw the things he did do and what he was there to be apart of. She only saw the father that he was, not the father that he wasn't. Daisy didn't like seeing glasses as half full or as half empty. Truly, from Walt she had learned that the amount in the glass was irrelevant. As long as there was anything in the glass at all, why did it matter how much of it there was? Walt saw the possibilities, the endless, infinite possibilities, even when only one drop sat at the bottom of his lonely glass. That one drop contained his hopes, fears and love. In it he saw Daisy and Mickey and Donald and all of his other children. He could not let them down, he told Daisy with determined eyes, they were his family. He was a father. He was their father and he was the contents of their glass.
As she sees the freshly disturbed dirt and the name on the stone, Daisy tries to be strong. For Minnie who cries against her, for Mickey catching her eye, for Goofy who holds his son and, most importantly, for Donald. For her dearest who sobs into Sora, pitiable wails heard across the land. It is then that she almost loses her carefully held composure, for she is moved by the sight of him there. By the proud and magical duck who is so devastated, for the king who hangs back with his friend and for Goofy and Minnie and all the others who will always remember how very cold it was as the sun began to rise over the kingdom. Her cheeks are still dry as she releases her friend, lifts her skirts and walks away from the procession.
When she reaches them, Sora takes her hand without a thought. Daisy eyes the key bearer with thanks, for the tears dotting his boyish cheeks, the heave of his shoulders and his hold on them both. And then a funny thing happens, a funny little acceptance that closes every last door and flattens her poise: Donald's magic swirls the air and his blue wizard's robes become black. As black as anything Daisy ever saw.
Her release first comes out as a dry laugh and then as desperate and endless tears tumbling down her face. She and Donald cry together in implacable wails, holding Sora who, also, just cannot seem to stop sobbing.
Even if the last drop is gone, the glass still remains. And, heavens, their tears are so great they could fill any glass in any kingdom.
Perhaps that is why she can't seem to stop from crying.