Dum vita est spes est - Where there is life, there is hope.
"We still need a name for her."
Peeta's voice, the warm hand around my shoulder, the gentle kiss on my forehead, and the new life in my arms. I allow it all to thaw my frozen terror of the past few months. Cracks splinter through my cold shell as her tiny face twitches in sleep. Now this child, our promise of hope needs a name. I doubt any simple label truly worthy of this moment exists.
Peeta suggests Primrose, which I reject immediately. He understands, though. We've talked about it before. It's enough for me to take just looking at the bushes in front of my house every day, even after all these years. I will never forget my sister, and I still want to do everything I can to honor her memory. But I simply can't bring myself to associate my fragile newborn daughter with the sister I failed to protect. I can't face the pain of saying that name aloud, remembering who it used to belong to.
It's the same with Rue. Nothing would make me happier than to see my girl grow into the strong, resourceful, tenacious little creature Rue was. But I know that any time I speak that name, call for her to come back into the house after playing outside, all I'll be able to feel will be the hoarseness in my throat as I cry out to her in the arena, bow loaded as I crash through leaves and brush, knowing I'll never get to her in time. And I'd never be able to sing her to sleep. It all happened a lifetime ago, but the pain is still as fresh in my nightmares as it's always been.
It'd be the same with a boy, too. Peeta and I both lost so many, too many. Family and friends alike, all extraordinary in their own ways. All accountable for the life we live now. It would make perfect sense to honor them by giving our own children their names, if only it weren't for the manner in which we lost them.
I really want Peeta to name her. He's always been the better of the two of us when it comes to sentiment. But he only offers an occasional suggestion and waits for my input. For some reason, he feels the final decision should rest with me.
The list in my head continues to grow, but each name brings a fresh stab of guilt. All I can see is blood, fire, parachutes, the spear, the hovercrafts, candy pink birds. The mayor's house reduced to charred rubble.
Surely a meaningful name must exist that hasn't belonged to a tragic martyr we both loved. Considering the world we came from, however, that might be exactly the case.
I let my head rest on Peeta's shoulder. He pulls me in closer to his side. We sit like this for a while, neither of us speaking until finally a face, a name, comes to mind. I have to dig deep into my past, search the sea of forgotten faces before I know exactly the name, the example, I want my daughter to carry.
Another little girl, brought into much darker times than these. A girl born amidst the ashes of tragedy, a tragedy that still wrenches my heart to this day. One tiny little girl who gave life after death, whose presence brought her family out of the darkest depths of loss, and who, in spite of the suffering world she was born into, did not die, but grew up strong. A little girl who is now a thriving adult, but whose young, innocent face I once watched bring smiles to the most hopeless souls, and whose favorite color was bright pink.
"Peeta, what do you think of the name Posy?"