On the twenty-first day of the second month in the year two thousand four, a crisp cold morning lingered outside, and the clock read quarter to four.

In a hospital room that wintry morn something sacred took place, hard to tell through the mournful cries, and the tears on each child’s face.

A beautiful woman had fallen ill and her family was there by her side, each person knew, down deep in their heart, her fate was now God’s to decide.

Four generations of children amassed, each soul filled with concern, but the love she had given throughout her life now needed to be returned.

From the eldest of children to the youngest babe, each child was given a voice, whether to speak, or just sit and pray would be of their own choice.

Holding her hand as they softly spoke, loves tears would fill their eyes, but the fire of love consumed each heart and refused to be denied.

They would speak whatever their heart desired, trying to ease her pain, heart felt words poured from their lips like a warm midsummer rain.

As one would stand, they’d relinquish her hand, and offer a gentle kiss. The chair at her side never grew cold as another would come and sit.

As I recall that morning, and reflect on my life, I consider how I’ve lived. Then I can’t help but wonder, have I touched others lives the same as sweet Hilda had?

In my thirty plus years have I earned such love that was returned to her that day, I think hard and long, but the answer’s unclear, and hard for me to say.

The angels who came to show their love, were a family with love to give, and to see that display, to feel their love, was a blessing I’ll pray to relive.

This is so different to what I'd normally read, though I did enjoy this, the first part took me in. And I loved your similes:

"Heart felt words poured from their lips like a warm midsummer rain."

Perfect imagery, and a nice section at the end, questioning your life.

I like :)