The Other Kind of Rest
It was a cold November morning. My mother rubbed my little toes. She smiled.
'How's my little soldier?' she asked.
'Fine,' I said, stifling a cough with my blanket. 'Better than the night before.'
'You're getting away from the pneumonia unscathed,' she stroked the hair from my eyes. 'You really are a little soldier.'
I smiled at her. I shivered. The fever was returning.
Sweat ran down my face. I shook in the bed. The world around me became blurry.
'Mom?'
'Yes, love?'
'Am I going to die?' I'd heard it on the radio, a lot people are dying of pneumonia everywhere around the world.
'No,' she said. My mother took my hand into her's. I could see the tears coming.
I hated seeing her so sad.
'It's okay,' I said, stroking her fingers.
'What?' she asked.
'If I die. I won't really mind.'
'You're not going to die.'
'Mom, I heard the doctors say it.'
'Don't listen to them, they don't know what they are talking about. Listen to me, mother knows best.'
'Mom, it really is okay,' my breath became ragged. The world turned white. I could barely make out the hospital room. 'Mom?'
'Yes?'
'Hold me.'
She took my scrawny, pale body into her arms. She smelled of lemons.
'Do you love me?' I whispered into her ear.
'Yes,' her voice shook as she spoke. 'More than there are grains of sand in the world.'
'I love you too mommy,' I said, softly. I closed my eyes. A cold, stillness came to me.
The pain...the pain...left.
I could still feel the single tear run down my cheek.
My mother shook.She screamed. My hair became matted with her tears.
'No! No!' she yelled. 'Not him!'
These were the last words I heard before falling asleep.
I felt bad about leaving her.
