maggie had beautiful hair,
blonde and thick and curly and
so pretty,
long enough for
pocahontas braids, and
maggie always smiled, even
through the pain, and
she made me smile.

seven years old, she should be
playing princess and mermaid and
beaches and swings and sunshine and
shouting and singing and playing and
spinning, spinning, till she’s dizzy and
sees the world upside down, and
coloring pictures outside the lines,
always in red, her favorite color,

one day i gave maggie
a balloon, and
her pinched sunken face
lit up a smile, and
her big doe eyes shining,
her little hands eagerly grabbed
the string, crying
“thank you, annie!”

seeing her beautiful hair
gone, but still
that smile;
i couldn’t relax the muscles in my throat
enough to say “you’re welcome”, and
i think, lord, that
it must be crowded up there,
so full of angels, and
we need some angels down here.
why do you want her now?

maggie waves around the balloon,
red, her favorite color; but
she doesn’t hold it tightly enough, and
i cry, “maggie, don’t let go!”, but
too late, the balloon
frees from the grasp of her
tiny little fists, and
floats away silently, peacefully; and
maggie gazes calmly, says,
“balloons always have to fly away someday.”