A small object that generated a rebellion.
A spark that led to a flame.
A flame that spread to inferno.
An inferno that burned my country into a revolution.
It's amazing how something so minor, so miniscule, something no longer than the metallic tip of an arrow, can perpetually alter the world around you...
My fingers gingerly graze the pin's delicate, golden edges as I stand there, my weary insomniac body consumed by the harsh events of the past...the events that have forever dictated my each and every action, thought, and sentence.
Even as I am frozen in this moment nearly twenty-five years later, the gift still remains a major source of my perplextion.
It had always been here, lost among the various items strewn haphazardly inside the top drawer of my dresser. Though undoubtedly, it is a part of the most significant- the old leather Plant Book whose pages are so overflowing with past photos, sketches, flowers, and a multitude of other mementos, that the once tight binding threatens to unravel itself with each touch; an image of my father that hasn't really seen outside of this mahogany prison, placed safely in a dark corner in fear of anything happening to the distinct remnants of my paternity; and last of all, the delicate pearl, given to me by Peeta in our second Hunger Games.
My mockingjay pin, ever since the days of my teenage years, had simply sat there. Never touched. Never spoken of. Never present in one's personal subconsciousness.
Except mine.
Its existence brought on unwanted recollections, – its contrasting hue from the stark white of Madge's reaping dress; Cinna meticulously attaching it to the fabric of my arena attire not only once but twice...his face as he was dragged away bruised, bloody, by the peacekeepers of the Capitol...; its alliance with the rebels and District Thirteen. But unfortunately, the most notorious is its association with myself – The Mockingjay – the symbol for the side against Snow... the person who caused them to torment and torture Peeta Mellark, the Boy with the Bread, the boy who had saved my life a countless amount of times, the boy whom I still love to this day. For real.
A shrill cry interrupts my temporary reverie, ripping my gaze from the iconic accessory in my hands to the young wailing infant nestled in the wooden cradle beside our bed. Without a thought, I abruptly shove the drawer shut and drop the pin unceremoniously into the cloth pocket of my trousers. The soft sound of bare feet against carpet fills the room as I pad over towards the evidently displeased child.
"Shh, baby." I whisper through the darkness while taking his small body into my arms. His tiny head of curly blonde fuzz snuggles against my chest as I gently rub circles onto his onesie-clad back, soothing his kitten mewl whimpers that are gradually beginning to fade. "Shh, my sweet Asher, it's alright." His fingers tangle themselves into my braid before he drifts off to sleep, his small thumb stuck pleasantly inside his mouth. I lower my lips to his forehead, kissing Asher's warm, baby-soft skin.
My son. My children. Peeta.
It is now that I start to recall the good done by my pin, the one that grows heavier and heavier burrowed within its new fabric home, as my thoughts of it take place.
Thanks to the Mockingjay's appearance and interference with my life they are safe, at home, being kids. They lack the fear that dominated my childhood, the sudden need to mature for risk of disease and neglect, their names printed malevolently upon the white paper of the Capitol, and entered into the glass bowls for the Reaping.
After returning a now sleeping Asher to his cradle, I find myself retrieving the thing from my pocket, once again silent in observation of its subtle details.
The bird, indeed, that brought on rebellion, but also fulfilled the future and reassured the freedom, affection, and refuge of my present.