green as summer is
Annie sees green everywhere. In the trees in the summer, the ground when it rains, in the flash of her son's eyes. That's the only way he's stayed with her. There are some photos, hiding, but she made a girl take them away from her, a girl that he trusted and that she does, too. She sees green sometimes, when the sun sets, or in the glint of cicadas in the afternoon heat, or the melting sweets clutched in her hand when she swears that she saw him.
There are other colors, of course, gold like babies' hair or dark like a winner's eyes, but nothing quite so brilliant as green. The baker—he gets the perfect shade, once he starts making cakes again, when he frosts and makes pretty things for his children and for others, too. The girl he trusted brings her gifts, cloths and silks and designs, makes sure she's dressed up elegantly and never, ever makes her speak at the rallies that still grip the nation. And even though she knows it's not possible, Annie looks. Looks for those eyes, for that shade of green that she's only ever seen in her son, her son who looks too much like her, eyes that will haunt her for the rest of her life.
She wants all the green in the world, all the green she can get. Green like the sweet days of her youth, before they took everything she loved away, not the reds and blacks of fall and winter. Warmth, green is hope and happiness and love, springtime and warm days where Finnick would feed her grapes that matched the color of him. Green.
Green that can only last as long as summer does.