And she loved him.

I just started a new book and one of the joys of reading is happening upon those bits of writing that is either too beautiful or too poorly written to stand. Last night as I read the following it nearly took my breath away, it was so lovely:

On the day of the 1893 hurricane when much of Florida was suffering while Tampa remained untouched, her baby arrived. It was born white and cold, and she learned she would have no others, and that was a second death. Over the following weeks she tried not to dwell on it, tried to think of another outlet for her energies, as the doctor advised - many women found charity work very rewarding, he said, and there were plenty of people all over the southeast without a roof over their heads, their possessions and loved ones lost to the storm. Marion could not feel sorry for those souls, nor even for the 19,000 dead. She wished the hurricane had struck Tampa, torn the entire town from its brackish roots. Then her child might have lived; it might have had the air blown into its lungs, the color shaken into its cheeks.

Jack nursed her with soft rice puddings and mild broths - things she had not known he could make - and he dug a little grave beneath the two-fruit tree so that the child would be close to them at night. Although there was no marker - for there had been no baptism, no name bestowed - Marion noticed that he never walked on that small piece of earth. And she loved him.