Daya stood over Patrick's grave holding a squirming bundle protectively against her chest. A single daisy grew atop the mound of dirt that held her only love. The baby cried out once. Daya hushed it and stroked its head gently. The child quieted and nestled into her chest, surrounded by a curtain of long, black hair.
"His name is Patrick," she said softly, pain still hung heavy on her voice. She looked down at the child. Its skin wasn't quite as dark as hers. His tiny head was framed by a halo of chocolaty brown hair soft as velvet. His tiny hands waved slowly through the air. He tilted his head up and opened his eyes.
Daya stared into Patrick's sea-blue eyes. The eyes of his father. The one that left, but was never entirely gone.
YOU ARE READING
The Trail to Love and Loss
Historical FictionThis story is a fiction work that tells the tale of a young Cherokee girl who is forced to walk the historic Trail of Tears and a boy who comes to America from England. I tried to be historically accurate with the story. It is a tale of love and los...
