As I have every morning for the past 15 years, I awaken to join a narrow shaft of sunlight caressing Peeta's lips. The boy with the bread has become my consummate counselor, my faithful friend, and my long-suffering lover.
"No nightmares?" he asks.
"No nightmares," I confirm.
This part of our morning routine is not always as benign, but last night was a good night. The balance of good nights to bad nights slowly shifted over the years. Now, I have more good nights than bad. And even on the bad nights – the nights even Peeta's arms cannot fend off the ghosts – I know that I am loved.
Resorting to artificial means to knock myself remains an option, though I choose it much less frequently now. There are still days when the simplest object or event launches me back into the arena. Dr. Aurelius was right – focusing on the good parts of life is essential to my healing. In the beginning, I had a hard time even finding something neutral. Now, I can honestly say there is good in my life. And some of it is very good.
Last night, we fell asleep disucssing the events which will unfold today. Today is a day for celebration – and for remembering. Today, my daughter Hope turns 12. In years past, this day would mark the day she became eligible for revenge-by-proxy. The day she would have to choose between feeding her family and risking her life. The day the Capitol could put her name into a reaping ball and cruelly pluck her from her parents' arms. The day my precious dandelion could be stolen from me forever.
But that day is not today. The corrupt Capitol has been defeated, due in part to choices I made. Some of those choices I still pay for on a daily basis with unpredictable flashbacks and a quiet, lingering distrust of human beings. Specifically, large groups of human beings with a great deal of power who claim their actions promote the greater good. Better to rely on yourself than to risk an alliance with people you don't really know.
Primrose Comprehensive is the one exception to my self-protective rule. Primrose Comprehensive has become the engine of rebirth for District 12. After the mines closed, Primrose Comprehensive served as our new hub not only for jobs, but also for education, medical care and research. The dedication ceremony for the ever-sprawling facility was held at the town square on the steps of the new Justice Building. The day was bittersweet. Too many memories still haunt me there. But for my children's sake, I was strong. Smiled. Thanked Mayor Hawthorne. Shook hands. Did my Did my "duty".
But today it is love, not duty that moves my feet to the square. The aroma of luxuriously scented candles wafts into the street when I open the door to Thomsae's Mercantile. Thom and Greasy Sae became business partners and opened the shop a few years ago. It's the most popular shop on the square now. They both welcomed the change. Seeing Sae happily running her business in the open and Thom shelving the latest arrival of knick knacks does take a bit of getting used to, though.
"Your meat order is ready. I'll bring it right up," yells Sae over the roar of a delivery truck in the alley. Sae's meat offerings include mostly the fancy stuff now. Wild dog and mouse meat stew is largely a thing of the past in District 12 now. Sae prepared today's party-sized order in advance both because it's larger than usual and because she knows to grind it for me first. There is no meat grinder in my home.
"It arrived yesterday, Katniss, and it is lovely. The perfect gift for a beautiful young lady," Thom beams from behind the glassed-in display counter. He is really in his element here. Coal mining never did suit him.
"It is truly a work of art. Thanks, Thom. See you and Sae at 3:00?"
"Wouldn't miss it," says Thom.
I stow the simply wrapped box in the pocket of Dad's old hunting coat. In many ways, it fits me much better now than it did when I first acquired it. He would have been so proud of his granddaughter. I know her grandmother sure is!
"Hi, Mom," I call out to the nicely dressed woman heading toward Primrose Comprehensive. "Going to work?"
"Yes. But no worries, Kat. It's just for a consult. I'll be at the house by 3. Earlier if you need me," Mom answers.
And she would be. There earlier if I needed her, that is. In fact, I have discovered that I can rely on my mother to be there for me when I need her. Both when I when I ask for it and when I'm too stubborn to admit it. Mom moved back to Primrose Village just after Hope was born.
I run my hand over the tops of the freshly pruned Primrose bushes that form a decorative hedge around the entire square as I walk back to my home in Victor's Village. I weave a few of the pale yellow blossoms into my braid and recall the last time I created a similar flowery crown. Rue was Hope's age when she was murdered.
I pass my friend and next door neighbor, Johanna Mason, as I turn onto our cul-de-sac in Victor's Village. She waves, points to her watch, rolls her eyes, and gives me that look that tells me she knows she has forgotten something, but doesn't want to ask.
"3:00, brainless," I shout comically, returning the eye roll. As we part ways laughing, she presses three fingers of her left hand to her lips and extending them out to me. Johanna Mason, you're a real piece of work, I think to myself, smiling. And I mean that in the best way possible.
I am assaulted with the smell of birthday cake when I open my front door. "It smells incredible, Peeta!", I say.
"It's a work in progress," he responds and gives me a quick peck on the cheek. "Come in the kitchen. I'll show you my my plans for icing this masterpiece".
I follow Peeta into the kitchen, unaware that my stealthy, miniature twin lurks close on my heels.
"Hi, Mom," Michael hollers as he tackles me from behind and we both fall down in a heap laughing. A tickle fight ensues, and I get the best of my 9 year old son. This time, anyway.
Hope's daddy truly has crafted a masterpiece. His design includes a special section on the top of the 3-tiered cake for displaying our gift to her. I dig into my pocket to retrieve the crowning touch. A very special gold locket adorned with a very special pearl adorning the top. The interior houses pictures of Peeta, Michael, and myself. It is inscribed on the back: "To our Hope, for always".
Guests begin to filter in around 2:30. Gale and his adopted son, Reuben, arrive first. Reuben was a 5-year old refugee when he adopted Gale a few years after Gale arrived in District 2 to lead the reconstruction effort. Fatherhood suits him well. I could hope for nothing better for my best friend.
"Hope's in the backyard with Michael and a few friends," I tell Reuben when he arrives. I know he'll be anxious to see her. He and Hope are very close. The Mellarks and the Hawthornes have been getting together at least twice a year since Hope and Reuben were in diapers. The kids talk every day on the phone. They are as inseparable as two kids living a few hundred miles apart can be.
Annie and her son arrive next, and are quickly followed by Thom and Sae, who have closed Thomsae's Mercantile for the afternoon. Johanna lets herself in the backdoor, along with Prissy, one of old Buttercup's many grandkittens. Mom pulls up behind Hazelle and Posy. Our last arrival is Uncle Haymitch, who has managed to shave for the occasion.
The kids barrel into the house and are abuzz with talk of Plutarch's latest enterprise: a singing show. Though I'm loath to admit it, I'm rather fond of the show, myself. Music holds a special place in my heart now. And in Michael's. It seem as good a segue as any, so I use the opportunity to gather the guests together to hear Michael's gift to his sister.
"Mockingjays' Lament" was born of my fiercely determined efforts to equip my children with the truth of history without immobilizing them in terror. It's a difficult balance to strike. This cautionary tale is sung to the tune of "The Hanging Tree". Reality served in bite sized pieces.
Michael inherited his grandfather's gift for song. The mockingjays perched in the willow tree outside 5 Cinna's Circle go silent as we croon a surprise duet in honor of Hope's 12th birthday.
Mockingjays' lament
Our freedom isn't free
Sacrifice and courage guard our children's dreams
When history repeats
Will you know what it means?
Will you know what to do? Will you know what you've seen?
Mockingjays' lament
Our freedom isn't free
Weapons at the ready. Keep your senses keen
When history repeats
Will you know what it means?
Will you know what to do? Will you know what you've seen?
Mockingjays' lament
Our freedom isn't free
Children, listen well - not all is at it seems.
When history repeats
Will you know what it means?
Will you know what to do? Will you know what you've seen?
Mockingjays' lament
Our freedom isn't free
Patriots recall the berry was the key
When history repeats
Will you know what it means?
Will you know what to do? Will you know what you've seen?
As if on cue, the phone rings, rendering a haunting harmony as Michael and I sing the last note. Very few people have the means to contact me. And all of them are seated directly in front of me – save one. I hesitate a moment before picking up the phone.
"Ms. Everdeen?" asks a disturbingly familiar voice.
"Yes," I respond stoically.
"We have a problem."
~END CHAPTER ONE~