Reflections of a Housewife

Set-up: Peeta's point of view

A few months after the rebellion

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Not the titles, not the books, not Suzanne Collins. She 's the creator and owner of the whole enchilada. I'm just a fan.

The primroses. I'm not even sure what possessed me to plant them. At first, it seemed like a good idea, but I'm afraid that all I did was resurrect some painful memories for her. I wonder what it must've been like to see everything that you've ever loved explode into a million pieces; to actually be there, yet stay suspended and helpless. I wish I were there to enclose her in my arms and tell her it was okay, and that it wasn't her fault that her sister died. I wonder what it would be like, but then I remember my nightmares. I lose her. When I wake, I feel her strong breath and warm touch and everything is right in my world, because she is beside me. But that can't happen anymore in her case. Prim's gone. Forever.

Yet here I am, tending to them once more, pulling out weeds and watering the soft soil; like nursing a wound. I try to rationalize what I did, and all I could think about was my baking. Every time I'm near the oven's flames, I think of the family I once had. Its heat is familiar, reassuring yet it sears my still-delicate skin (my wounds are still recovering from the rebellion). I remember waking up at four in the morning each day with my father and my brothers, measuring flour, mixing batter, and piping icing. I was so used to this little routine of ours- it seemed like a dance. It was all an illusion to think it could last forever. I wish it were all a nightmare, that I could wake up and see them again; that I didn't really lose them and that I didn't really let them die. Even though my hopelessness sometimes overwhelms me (to tears), I still remember those times I've had with them with much fondness. I remember my dad pushing me to break my back carrying those bags of flour, and those times when I slaughtered my brothers because they were making fun of my "obsession on that squirrel girl", or my mom punishing me for not using the right color of icing. In a weird way, they were always there for me. They made me into the Peeta I am today. I couldn't have survived a second in the Games without all that strength training. I probably wouldn't have become such a perfectionist or camouflage expert without my mom's influence. I probably wouldn't have become such a great wrestler without my brothers' constant annoyance (I'd always win, by the way).

For a while it was difficult to remember their faces, with the hijacking and all. In some twisted way, the tracker jacker poison was like morphling, dulling out the memories, blotting out the pain. That's why I barely showed emotion after the bombing at District Twelve, or after the reports saying they were nowhere to be found. The poison focused all of my memories against Katniss. It was as if I materialized out of nothing and my sole purpose was to destroy this girl I barely remembered. I used to see flashes of her turning into a monster, mocking me. Hurting me. Killing me. Even though images like that were excruciating, it was probably nothing compared to what they've gone through.

But now, their faces filled my mind. These memories are precious because I think back to those days in therapy. I had to assemble facts about myself, chant mantras, draw "memory portraits" and play endless rounds of "Real or Not Real". I literally had to piece my life together. Every moment I lost became precious. That's why I think it's selfish when people try to forget the ones they used to love. It's a total paradox. I know what it's like to have that wish come true. Trust me when I say this: the only thing worse than remembering is forgetting, and no amount of morphling can fix that. That's why I held on to my baking. Even though I'd break down into sobs (when Katniss isn't around), I force myself to hold the dough my father taught me to shape, because it reminds me that I was the baker's son; that I am the baker's son.

Then, I realized why I planted the primroses. Even though it's agonizing to remember that they have left, remembering those times when they were at your side is inevitable. I asked myself if it was worth wasting the good times just to get rid of the bad. It isn't. I'll just have to wait until she feels the same way, like I always do. Even if she often refuses to look at the blossoms, I'll never forget the day I first planted them. Tears filled her beautiful silver eyes, as if her little sister returned. As if the little ducky came waddling back into our lives. In many ways, Katniss and I are pretty different, but I know without a doubt in my heart that she will never forget Primrose, either. It's springtime and it's the season for the petals to bloom once again…

(The end?)

Author's note: I wrote this as sort of a challenge to myself. I wanted to justify Peeta's reaction (or rather, the lack of it) to the bombing of District Twelve. I wanted his take on the whole thing, too. Isn't it fun to experiment with P.O.V's? So anyway, do you have any thoughts? Comments? Suggestions? Malicious Criticism? PLEASE share. I'm still new to this sort of thing, and feedback is something I dearly fellow Hunger Games fans have given Peeta the pet name: "housewife" because of his "feminine" interests like baking. Well, I decided to join the bandwagon, do i gave the story that title. Thank you for your time and patience in reading my novice attempt at writing. To all you readers, may the odds be ever in your favor. – Vicky