When God Calls His Angels Poem by Chris Gray

A couple sit together,
Both just staring at the floor.
As if waiting for a little boy they know they'll never see again,
To come running through the door.
A bat and glove sit in the corner, collecting dust.
A neatly pressed uniform hangs alone in the closet,
and the buckles on a pair of cleats begin to rust.
And so she lays her hand in his,
And whispers in his ear.
We may not be able to see him,
But our little angel is always near.
And a little boy watches his father,
As he stands on the pitcher's mound and waits.
But he knows Mom and Dad would be proud,
Because now he's playing ball with the Saints.
A young Mother's tear,
Falls on a picture of a little girl,
With pigtails in her hair,
And tiny diamonds in her ears.
She tries to smile,
As she walks through memories,
Of playing hide and seek, building doll houses,
And climbing trees.
But anger and despair consume her,
As she buries her face in her hands,
And whispers,
'Why'd you have to take her Lord,
Because she was my angel too? '
And so a little girl,
Spreads her wings, and learns to fly.
At peace with herself,
But still wonders why her Mother cries.