Silver has always been my favorite color.  I remember when I was a little girl and I first saw the moon.  
"Anne?" I had asked, tugging on my sister's sleeve.
"Yeah, Dawn?"
"What is that ball of silver in the sky?" I pointed to the glowing orb above the house.  I felt small and childish asking the question, but Anne's gentle smile reassured me.
"That's the moon."
"What is it for?"  I asked, suddenly afraid.  It looked metallic and cold, like the tools littering hospital counter tops which I had seen in excess the past week.
Anne took my hand and adopted a motherly voice for the first time in our whole lives.  It was the beginning of seven long years of looking up to Anne as a mom.
"Don't worry," she said, having sensed my fear.  "That's where mom went."
"To the moon?  I thought she had gone to Heaven?"
"On the moon are two columns made of silver, yet they are extremely soft and smooth.  But unbreakable, because they are the gateway to Heaven."
My blue eyes were as wide as saucers as I stared up at her pale face.  The moon was slightly above her head, and I stood on my tiptoes, squinting, trying to see the gate.
"Past the moon are the stars and each star is a home for an angel.  When we die, we'll fly on large, virgin wings to the moon and make our way on silent footsteps through the gates.  Once past the gates, mom will be waiting for us, dressed in white with long, silky blonde hair and a crown of gold."
"Why not silver?"  I interrupted.  A flash of annoyance sparked in Anne's eyes but it was soon gone.
"Because you will be wearing a crown of silver.  You can't have everyone wearing the same thing."  I was pleased with her answer.  It appealed to my vanity.  "Mom will take us to her house on that star."  Anne squinted and pointed to a star five stars above the moon. "It will be just like our house now, but warmer."  We both paused, thinking of the draft that followed you through every room.
"And then mom will cook us dinner;-"
"-lasagna, her favorite," we said together.  We smiled at each other, a silly grin plastered on my face.
"Mom and I will dance in our light, flowing dresses and you will play the flute," I said.
"How will you two dance?"
"Like this," I said and grabbed Anne's hands.  Anne gave a sad smile before whistling mom's favorite tune.
"Magnificent, Anne dear.  You always bring tears to my eyes," I said, impersonating mom's voice.  Anne smiled and, if my memory serves me right, she had tears in the corner of her eyes.
We danced around our front yard under the light of the moon: a six and twelve year old with no mother, no sense of direction, and no sense of rhythm.  We spun in all directions, dipped, jumped, and I'm pretty sure made up a few new dance moves that night.  I remembered waking up in the morning with puffy eyes, starving, and a bruised right foot.
"What color will your crown be?"  I asked through a yawn as Anne tucked me into bed an hour later.  "And you can't pick silver!"
"What do you think of red?"
"Red is a very pretty color on you."
"Thank you, Dawn," she said with a smile on her pink lips.  She leaned over to kiss me on the forehead.
"Anne!" I called once she was almost out of the doorway.
"Yes?"
"I'd like to visit the moon someday."
"Not too soon, I hope."
"No, I…I just want to see mom.  I miss her."
"I miss her too."
There was silence before Anne blew out the candle.  That was the first night since mom had died that I feel asleep without crying.  I could see the silver moon shinning through my window, and the fifth star was visible in the clear night sky.  I imagined mom watching over Anne and me, and I came to terms with her death.  She was in a better place; she lived in a world of silver, after all.

He took her by the wrist and gently placed a brush in her hand.
She dipped it in a bottle of pastels,
And under His watchful eye
She drew a sky with all the colors before her.
A shade of blue glowed on the page,
And in the distance birds cawed.

Once He nodded in approval
Her brush painted a scene of love and silent tears.
Houses appeared on the page,
Each with more meaning then the next.
Gradually the scene changed,
As things do with age.

Her brush faltered,
Painting a scene in all blacks and blues.
She shaded her face until only the tears showed.
The painter stubbornly looked down,
Ignoring the face of beauty looking down at her,
Ignoring the gentle touch on her wrist.
She painted scenes of confusion and pain,
Worry and death.
She became ignorant and blind,
Forgetting the setting she had once loved before.

The painter suddenly noticed her mistake,
And once again found Him and the guidance He gave.
He whispered his plan to her
And her brush danced across the page with a renewed hope.
She painted all the joys in colors of yellow,
All the little hints of love in various tints of red.
Times of growth and understanding leaped off the page in vibrant greens.
She didn't hesitate to paint the sorrows,
Knowing that was what He wanted her to see.

And on the seventh day, He rested.
The girl, old and wise from the life she led,
Became a lifetime younger.
She curled up into His arms,
Like a child on a cold night.
He smiled down at her and she set down her brush,
Retiring to heaven
To admire the painting they had created.