Dreams are beautiful things. The more hope you blow into them, the higher they can lift you. Ellie had thousands of dream balloons that could carry her higher than mountains. And sometimes, if you were lucky, she'd let you come along for the ride. Today seemed to hold some extra charm for me, because when we had finally finished pushing the furniture in place, she rushed past me out the door.

"Come on, Carl!" she called, over her shoulder. "It's painting time!"

I stared after her for a moment, straightening my square glasses in confusion. "We finished painting the house, Ellie!" I yelled back through my cupped hands. "Don't you remember? I asked what color you wanted and you said, "RAINBOW!"

She spun around effortlessly, bouncing with excitement, a grin practically sparkling on her angelic face. "The mailbox, silly! We have to leave our mark." She then crouched down on the grass, and gave the thing a look up and down, lips pursed, bandana tightened, eyes narrowed and totally serious..

I was exhausted from the day's work, but a moment with Ellie was a moment taken, not wasted.

People couldn't help but smile when they saw her, she just had that effect on people, as she had on me that day.

"Right," she said, as she stood up and got to business. "Here's your brush, and there on the ground is your paint."

I carefully took the artist's utensil from her and lifted the heavy can, then waited for her to begin. Ellie cocked her head to the side and raised her right eyebrow. "Well?" She asked, expectantly.

"Well what?" I replied, honestly confused.

"Begin," she said simply.

I looked at the plain white surface and then back at her. She was the creative one, that was clear, yet somehow, sometimes, she'd let me play leader. She'd push me to feel special, and tell me how brilliant I was the whole while. This was going to be one of those opportunities and I glanced back at the mailbox, scared. The last thing I wanted to do was disappoint her. Carefully, I dipped my brush into the lime green milky paint and wrote my name out in fluid cursive. I nodded, pleased.

"Your turn," I said, smiling down at her, and leaning my arm against the top. She chose a purple, wrote the symbol for "and", and then signed her name in a burgundy color, same cursive. You couldn't tell our handwriting apart. That was us. Different colors, yet perfectly complimentary.

I went to take my arm away and gasped in horror. My hand had somehow gotten purple paint all over it, and my handprint was now permanently imprinted on our mailbox. I had ruined it. I had ruined everything. I was about to apologize, when Ellie threw her paintbrush over her shoulder and pressed her delicate burgundy hand on the surface, right below where my purple hand sat. She looked up at me and gave me an incredible smile, and relieved, I returned one quickly.

Ellie may be gone, but she certainly isn't forgotten. Her dreams still float around. After all, being the dreamer she was, she had made sure to put enough hope in them to last an eternity.