Disclaimer: Suzanne Collins owns The Hunger Games. I own nothing.
The Secrets of Living
I stop moving my wings and let the wind and my momentum carry me for a while. I am aware of nothing but the air around me and the earth below me. I see fields of green grass, leafy forests, and lakes of the purest blue. Hundreds of feet above the trees, I am a speck of blue against the never ending sky.
I soon arrive at my favorite place, at the edge of the woods. Changing my direction, I glide down to land on the branch of a birch tree. My chosen perch is facing a small cottage with clusters of pink primroses surrounding it. In front of the cottage sits a woman with dark hair and piercing grey eyes, which can be fierce or gentle, depending on who she's with. Now they are gentle, as she makes soft cooing sounds to the little girl in front of her. The child grins widely and makes gargling noises in response. She playfully grabs a lock of her mother's glossy raven hair, the same color as her own curls. Inside the house, a young man sits sketching a still life, brows furrowed in concentration. He is as fair as the woman and child are dark, but his eyes are the same blue as the little girl's. As blue as mine once were. He looks up from his picture, a smile playing across his lips as he watches his wife and daughter.
When a soft breeze arises, the woman looks up. It's then, when the leaves rustle like thousands of hushed voices and the sweet scent of wildflowers fills the air, that she swears she can hear my voice. She puts a hand on her swollen belly and listens intently. For a moment the sound is there, she knows it, but within a moment it is gone. She listens with her sharp hunter's ears, but to her disappointment it does not come again. At least once every day, she closes her eyes and pictures my face. Remembering what it looked like when I smiled, when I cried, when I was afraid, when I was teasing her. She's so terrified of forgetting that she won't allow a single detail to escape her memory. She tries to think of what I would be like if I had grown up, but that thought is lost when the breeze fades. It doesn't really matter anyway. She can only think of me as I was, an innocent child. Blinking away tears, the woman smiles at the child, who has become concerned at her mother's sudden silence. The woman extends her hand to the child, who grasps it tightly in her tiny fist. The woman looks at her daughter's smile and begins to sing."Here in the meadow, under the willow, a bed of grass, a soft sweet pillow." From my spot on the branch, I lift my beak and sing the notes, joining her in a bittersweet duet. "Lay down your head and close your eyes, and when they open, the sun will rise." Soon all the other mockingjays within hearing have followed our lead. The trees echo with their song, the sound piercing the silence with as much sorrow as joy.
Sister, listen to me. No one can keep their innocence forever. Yours was gone too soon. When you should have been a carefree young girl necessity caused you to cast off your girlhood and become a woman like a hatchling sheds its downy feathers. In contrast, I am etched in your memory as the eternal child, who died before she lived. One of many. One of many buds cut before they could bloom, songs that ended mid verse.
You are afraid that you will forget, but you never will. I was with you when you had lost hope, when you regained it, when you brought your child into the world through love and pain. I was there then, and I will be there until we see each other again. You will never lose me, because I live in you. When the girl and the baby are old enough, you will tell them about me, their lost aunt. We will both live on in them, as they will one day live on in their children. "Here your dreams are sweet, and tomorrow brings them true. Here is the place where I love you." Listen to the birds, sister. They are singing for you and me.