St. Luke's Hospital, Chicago, September 18th, 1918
The hospital room was dimly lit by the soft glow of a gas lamp, casting long, stretching shadows on the walls. The smell of antiseptic hung in the air, faintly clinging to the sheets, to the clothes of the nurses that shuffled in and out. Edward's mind floated in and out of consciousness, the edges of reality softening until nothing seemed quite real, except for the steady rhythm of his mother's voice.
He had been lying in the hospital bed for what felt like weeks now—too many days blurred together, the ache in his chest becoming a permanent fixture, the sickly pallor of his skin more than just a mirror to his body's betrayal. His body had already begun to give up. As had his mind. He just wanted death. The gruel, the shivers and shakes, the fever, the ignored weeps as they put leeches on his skin. He hated the bloodletting.
Just let me die. Please.
Now, though, there was only the faint, almost forgotten sound of his mother's soft voice. Her presence in the room, her hand still warm and gentle as it held his own, was the only thing keeping him tethered to something real. She was sitting by his side, her eyes still red from weeks of sleepless nights, her face drawn with fatigue, but there was a calmness in her expression that gave him comfort. She had always been a steady anchor for him, even when he was young, and it seemed, in the twilight of his life, she would continue to be.
He let his eyes flutter open, half-conscious, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he saw her there—her delicate hand gently stroking his hair.
"Edward," she whispered, and the sound of his name felt like a balm, soothing him in ways nothing else could. Her voice was raspy from the grief she had endured, but there was still a softness there that soothed the ache in his heart. "Edward, my dear."
His throat was dry, and the words that came out of his mouth felt like they barely registered, as if they were not his at all. He managed a weak chuckle, even though it barely had any strength behind it.
"I always thought I'd go to war, mama," he said, his voice almost a whisper, but there was a spark of humor in his tone. "But I don't think they enlist cadavers."
His mother's lips trembled into a soft smile, though her eyes remained full of sorrow. "Dont joke with me now, I'll still spank you bare, even if my fingers are blue." she whispered, brushing the back of her hand over his forehead.
"Ooh...frightening," he said, his voice trailing off for a moment, as if the weight of those words had struck him in a place he couldn't reach.
He laughed weakly, the sound breaking his heart. His mother's expression softened even more, if possible, as she leaned closer to him, her face just inches from his.
"You're still my boy," she said softly, her fingers brushing a lock of hair from his forehead. "And you always will be."
"I know, mama," he whispered. "I know."
There was a long, quiet pause between them, and Edward closed his eyes, the exhaustion of the last few months weighing heavy on his tired body. His breathing had become slower, shallower, and the edges of his world were beginning to blur again. But before he slipped into unconsciousness, his mother's voice, so soft, so gentle, broke through the haze.
"Lavenders blue, dilly, dilly, lavenders green. When i am king, dilly, dilly, you shall be queen," she sang softly, a lullaby he remembered from his boyhood. It was the lullaby she had sung to him when he had been too young to understand the world, when the world was simple and safe and full of comfort. When the night didn't seem so dark, and the ache of life hadn't yet settled in his bones.
"Who told you so, dilly, dilly,
who told you so?
'Twas my own heart, dilly, dilly,
that told me so.
Call up your men, dilly, dilly,
set them to work
Some to the plough, dilly, dilly,
some to the fork,
Some to make hay, dilly, dilly,
some to cut corn,
While you and I, dilly, dilly,
keep ourselves warm.
Lavender's green, dilly, dilly,
Lavender's blue,
If you love me, dilly, dilly,
I will love you
Let the birds sing, dilly, dilly,
And the lambs play
We shall be safe, dilly, dilly,
out of harm's way
I love to dance, dilly, dilly,
I love to sing
When I am queen, dilly, dilly,
You'll be my king."
Her fingers stroked his hair with a tenderness that made his heart ache with a bittersweet longing, and for a moment, it felt like he was five years old again, lying in his small bed in their old home, listening to the soft murmur of her voice, the rhythmic rise and fall of her breath as she sat beside him. The world felt so far away then, so distant, but at that moment, he found a peace that he hadn't known in years. His body felt light, as if he were floating, as if nothing else mattered except this quiet, tender moment with his mother.
"Lavenders green, dilly, dilly, lavenders blue~" she continued, her voice a soft hum that made his heart ache with the sweetness of it.
Edward's body relaxed into the pillow, and though he was far too weak to smile, he felt something inside him shift. The fear, the pain, the doubt—it all seemed to fade, like mist dissipating in the morning sun. He wasn't sure how much time passed, but in that moment, as his mother's gentle lullaby wrapped around him like a warm blanket, he was content. He had lived. He had been loved. He had been hers, and she had always been his.
His eyelids fluttered closed, his breath becoming steady, even as his body gave in to the weight of exhaustion. And in that final moment before he drifted off into the darkness of unconsciousness, his last thought was a fleeting one—a simple one.
He was at peace.
His mother's song echoed softly in his mind as he drifted away, the lullaby that had carried him to sleep for years now guiding him one last time into the quiet, peaceful embrace of rest.
"You must love me, dilly dilly," Edwards raspy, weak voice then joined in the last lyric. "For I love you..."
And then, he slipped into a gentle unconsciousness. Peace. Silence. Rest.