A/N: It has taken me quite a while to work up the courage to address this story. I've written a few sentences here and there when I feel confident and strong-willed enough to persevere. I lost three very dear relatives last year and writing this story has been both cathartic and draining. I've written this mostly for my own benefit, but I sincerely hope that as it continues it may help those who are grieving. May you enjoy the continuation of this and the love that is shared within Katniss and Peeta's extended family. Thank you to those who have read and/or reviewed.
I've left the door to Peeta's art studio closed for weeks, unable to set foot in the most sacred place he ever made his own. Peeta left nearly three weeks ago. Today, I woke with the feeling that I just needed to spend time in his place. I thought about it throughout breakfast, as I sipped my coffee, and as I brushed my teeth.
It took me half the day to work my nerves under control and walk to the door at the end of our hallway. Perhaps it was the conversation with Dani that fueled this need to be a part of that world again. This need to be immersed in the things that haunted my husband and the things that lifted him up, it's almost consumed me, or at least my thoughts.
The white door isn't menacing, but I stare at it feeling a skipping beat in my heart and a flush on my face. I shakily turn the silver doorknob and automatically my hand rises to flip the light switch as I enter. A habit I guess. Everything is exactly the way that he left it. Supplies neatly organized, finished works stuffed into every crevice. The same paintings hung on the walls.
It's overwhelmingly too clean. I want Peeta to walk in the door and throw himself into a new project. Anything, I'd even acquiesce to letting him paint me for the thousandth time. I wouldn't put up a fight like always. I'd give anything to just watch him work once more.
I fall into a leaning position against one of the shelves and glance around the room looking for something, searching for whatever my heart desires to find here. My body is shaky with age and my weakened heart needs a rest. I close my eyes as I lean against the shelves. I breathe in and out slowly until I can sense the calm melting through my bones.
I know I've been drawn here for a reason today. I just don't know what the purpose is. I gingerly open my eyes and instantly they latch onto a particular project. I stare at the painting above the table across the room.
My grey eyes stare back at me, a slight curve to my lips, an almost smile. Peeta painted it a few years after we grew back together, before we were married. I recognize some of the features of my family in my face; my mother's nose and mouth, my father's eyes, the shape of Prim's chin. I see my own children and grandchildren in the lines and curves.
None of these people share the jagged stretched skin of my scars though. Peeta didn't omit them from the portrait. The scars were still fairly fresh then, reddish-pink skin, taught yet wrinkled on the edges. Now those same scars are a lightened pink, almost white at times.
Set with all my other features I realize why Peeta would stare at me so thoughtfully, why his kisses lingered on my cheeks and his fingers gingerly memorized every inch.
"I can see that beauty you always swore was there Peeta," I whisper as I appraise my image, stepping closer to the portrait.
"Too bad you didn't hang any up of yourself," I chuckle as I look around further.
I spend the afternoon rummaging through Peeta's more recent finished works, crying, laughing, and crying some more. I can almost feel the way he would criticize a piece, or the way he'd insist that he wasn't adding flourish to the images of me. He said he only painted the truth, but sometimes I was skeptical of his view of me and I still am. Even after all of these years.
Some of the most recent paintings have a vibrant ethereal quality about them, brought on by the quivering in Peeta's aged hands. The shaky lines and blended colors are the last works he ever made.
The long day wears me out both emotionally and physically. Finding sleep is hard as I lay in bed, splaying my hand over the empty space beside me. I close my eyes and imagine Peeta's weight sagging the mattress. Eventually I drift into a land of hazy dreams where Dani and Peeta are painting side by side along the shore of the lake.
Their laughter puts my heart at ease.
I wake later than usual. The sun is already merrily shining through the trees and I watch a squirrel scurry up the willow's trunk next to my bedroom window. I rest against the pillows, watching the animal wildly run and jump from branch to branch, like a mountain goat traversing precarious cliffs. As my eyes follow the small nimble body, I recall the days when I could shoot three or four of them in an hour. I always got the best trade for them at the bakery. I can still hear the young timber of Peeta's voice in my memory, "My father buys her squirrel. He always comments on how the arrows never pierce the body. She hits every one in the eye."
I have left the windows open nearly every night, a homage to Peeta, and last night was no different. With the chill of the air, I had contemplated closing it. But, I couldn't do it. It felt like something of a betrayal, as though it would be shutting Peeta's spirit out. So, I had slept with two blankets, burrowed in the middle of the bed.
The squirrel scuttles out of sight and reminds me that I should get moving as well. I gingerly rise and dress for the day, choosing a pair of soft trousers and a well-worn shirt. Morning birds call their cheerful greetings as I walk down the staircase and into the kitchen for a cup of hot mint tea. From the moment I opened my eyes this morning; I knew that I would be calling Dani today. I eat a quick breakfast of eggs with a piece of thick leftover ham before reaching for the phone.
After three rings, my son-in-law Marcus picks up the phone, "Hello, this is Marc."
My daughter had always been a great hunter and an even better fisher. Peeta encouraged her to pursue those loves and find a way to make a living from them. Since there are now limits on hunting and fishing game. She chose to go to college in District 4, pursuing a Small Business Administration degree, staying with Annie and Jo while she took her courses.
At the end of her two year degree, Jo took her on a mini-vacation to a summer festival in District 7. That's where she met Marcus Lorenz. They kept in touch, writing over the course of the year before they married here in 12. They built a house on the land where my family once lived in the Seam and now they own a butcher shop in the village. Where my Avery is dark and fiery, Marcus is good-natured and gentle. They complement each other perfectly.
"Hello Marcus, is Dani home?" I clear my throat, feeling the excited nerves ebb their way into my chest, burrowing in to gnaw and bruise. I'm ripe with anticipation, taut like a bow string ready to release.
"Hey Ma, how goes it today?" He asks, before turning from the phone to holler to his daughter.
I feel genuine happiness as I respond, "It's a good day. Cold night last night wasn't it?"
"Yeah, your crazy daughter insisted we leave the window open again," he laughs.
I smirk, thinking about how Avery used to crack her window as a small child to be like her daddy and how when she grew she had become so used to it, that she couldn't stand it being closed. "You can't hear the birds or night peepers if you close it", she would protest.
"Well, have a good day. Here's Dani," his smile can be heard in his voice, such a kind man always lively and good-humored like my Peeta was. I've always loved him as my own.
"Gran? Did you need something?" Dani asks as she takes the phone from her father.
"As a matter of fact, yes! I've got something for you to paint!" I can barely contain my excitement. The taut bowstring in my chest releases its anticipation and quivers, vibrating pleasantly. The flutter it leaves within my heart is such a lovely contrast to the tense weight that settles when thoughts of Peeta consume me.
"Really?!" Dani exclaims on the other end, "What is it?" I smile as I try to imagine her expression.
I ponder whether I should tell her or keep it a surprise and settle on the latter, "You'll see when you get here. Hurry up little gosling." I laugh and hang up the phone without bidding her goodbye.
I want to prepare the art station for her. I hurry up the stairs, well at least as best I can with my old bones. I organize the supplies that I think she may want and position a fresh canvas on the mount. I feel like a mother-goose preparing her nest of grass and down along the shoreline, settling each important material into the perfect place. I run a shaky hand through my hair, feeling the jitters quiver once more. I smile, satisfied with my work, and lean against the wall to rest a moment.
About 15 minutes later the front door swings open, I really ought to oil that hinge, I remind myself.
"Gran, you upstairs?" Dani's voice floats up to me, willowy like the wind.
"I'm in Grandpa's studio, come right up!"
Her light feet climb the old wooden stairs quickly. She offers me a gigantic smile as she comes into the doorway, her dimple on full display. The beaming brightness spreads across her face like the sun rising in the East. She bends to give me a quick kiss on the cheek before glancing around the room eagerly.
"So, what is it that you want me to paint?" She asks, looking around the room once more, the excitement bursting forth. I take a deep breath and point to the portrait of myself. Her eyes drift toward the painting and she inhales a gentle breath.
"Oh Gran, it's stunning," she says softly as she approaches the wall. She stares at it for some time, seemingly examining the intricate brush-strokes.
"Tell me about it," she finally says.
I approach, standing at her side with my hands clasped at my heart. My mind drifts back, searching for the right words to describe that time. I was still having nightmares then, innocently sleeping alongside Peeta.
Peeta and I were emerging from the rubble of a past life as fresh versions of ourselves. We were stretching up toward the sun as feeble as seedlings springing through thick forest ashes, learning to traverse the world like newborn fawns on shaky legs. We were growing together.
He was a very dear friend to me then, not quite a lover, but someone more important to me than anyone else. My dandelion in the spring.
I unclasp my hands, instead taking one of Dani's small smooth palms into my ragged one, "Peeta said that we were growing back together like two rosebuds that had suffered through a hard winter. I always thought we were more like unsteady fawns, experiencing their first real Spring."
My eyes roam over Dani's face, smiling at her expression, a look of visualization that I sometimes witnessed in her grandfather, "I was 20 years old. He was my best friend. We were not in love, but so very fond of each other. He would stare at me for hours and one day he asked me to sit for this painting."
I run my thumb over the smooth patch of skin on the back of her hand, Dani watches our clasped hands absently as I continue, "It took a few days and as he painted he told me stories about when he was a very young boy. I told him stories about when I was a very young girl. When he was done, I was mortified that he had painted the scars. Now though, I see why he was so enamored with looking at my face. They really were quite fitting in a fierce way," I finish. Dani nods her assent, examining the portrait again.
"I want you to paint a portrait of me, just like this one – except now, we'll see how I weathered through sixty-eight more years of being an old ornery crab," I joke as I pull her back to the staging area I have created for her.
I sit on a soft sofa directly in front of her. She looks terribly nervous, biting her lip and fiddling with the hem of her shirt. She seems to give herself a little mental pep-talk, whispering inaudibly as she peruses the color choices and begins mixing options on the palate. Finally, her eyes move upward, appraising my face.
"Alright, let's do it, then." She says, picking up the palate and blending her first fluid stroke into the canvas.
It takes two more sittings before she is finished. Dani bids me not to peek at it in between our sessions and I obey like an eager child waiting for a precious gift. In the end, when the paint has dried, we stand together and admire it without speaking a word. As I set eyes on it for the first time, I feel my breath catch in my chest before an intense sense of pride rises from my belly. My grand-daughter painted this and somehow it is more beautiful than the original creation.
"Little gosling," I breath out reverently as tears burst forth and gently carve paths around the apples of my cheeks.
"Oh, don't cry Gran! What's the matter?" She surges forward, hastily wiping her soft hands against my cheeks to catch the wayward drops of salty water.
I don't answer for a moment, choosing instead to compose myself and look more intently at my image. Instead of the fierce girl of my youth, Dani has painted the striking woman of my present. Her vivid strokes have captured the arresting look of understanding and affection in my soft upturned lips, the depth of unshed pain in my eyes, the faded scars and the prominent wrinkles. My hair is no longer its deep ebony shade and my skin no longer quite as tan. In some way though, Dani has captured the very essence of me.
"It's breath-taking Dani, truly," I assure her, gripping her hands in my own, "Grandpa would weep just as I have, maybe even more. What a gift you have been given – what a gift."
"Thank you Gran, for everything. For all that you've done, for everyone. I love you," Dani whispers as she folds her small frame into my open arms. I feel coolness as her own tears seep against my neck. We hold each other tightly for a few moments longer, bearing our burden for the man who left so much behind.
"I love you, little gosling, more than you could ever know."