Ladies and gentlemen, I present the shortest chapter I've ever written for I Am Strong :P

I don't own the Hunger Games.

"You guys can come in."

I look up at Riegan eagerly. He smiles at me, and looks up at the rest of my family, opening the door for us. I walk in hesitantly. Lira lies on the bed, cradling a bundle wrapped in pink. It's a girl! I think jubilantly. Gale has his arm around Lira, and looks up at us. The happiness just radiates off him. I smile. Lira spots my reluctant look and says, "Come see, Tara." I move forward slowly, and my breath gets caught in my throat. The last baby I saw was Matz, and I was five. I'm sure I didn't really understand the importance of the birth then – nor did I appreciate it quite as much.

I've never known how small they could be. A small, pink hand is held near her cheek – I wonder how many of those chubby palms can fit on my own. The baby looks like any other with the wide forehead and the rosy, fat, dimpled cheeks. A little stub of a nose. Peacefully closed eyes. She has some fuzz on the head – light, brownish colored, but it'll probably darken.

"I'm so looking forward to getting to know her..." I breathe.

"It's nice to know she'll grow up with a sister, too," Gale says, eyes not leaving his daughter. I feel excitement well up in me, threatening to explode: already, this baby feels like my own sister.

I turn around. Matz looks curious, so I take a step closer to Riegan so he can see. All he can say is, "Cute." But he looks fascinated, even if he's not quite as excited as I am. He still looks up at Lira and Gale and says, "I'm really happy for you guys."

Gale smiles. "Thanks, Matzo."

I stare at the baby in wonder. I can't take my eyes off her.

"Her name's Camellia," Lira whispers, interrupting my thoughts.

My eyes dart up to meet hers, and I realize the significance. An image comes to my mind immediately, from the book of plants and from one of the flowering shrubs in the Victor's Village. My eyes close. An image of my grandfather's neat handwriting comes to mind. "Camellias," I recite under my breath, "are evergreen shrubs or small trees with leaves, alternately arranged: simple, thick, serrated, usually glossy. The flowers... are large, one to twelve centimeters in diameter, with five to nine petals in colors varying from pink, red or white. Tea is made from its leaves."

I'm glad they didn't call her "Rose", or "Lily". They're beautiful names, but I know Mother has a certain dislike for roses, and anyway, they're... common. Most people have never heard of camellias – they don't even grow very much in Panem. Flowers speak unspoken words. Their language is as beautiful as their appearance. We all know them: clovers mean luck, mistletoe mean "kiss me". To our family, dandelions mean hope, but it also means faithfulness and happiness. I'm about to ponder on the meaning of a camellia – I have forgotten – but it seems Riegan's thoughts match mine, as usual.

Riegan squeezes my hand. "It means everlasting love; you are perfect in every way; I admire you."

"Beautiful," I say quietly, smiling. I look down at the baby. I mean the flower, the meaning, and of course, her.

"Very fitting," Mother says.

"It was Riegan's idea," Lira says, tiredly, but her eyes are shining still; "to name her after a flower." I turn to him and smile. I'm sure it was.

The baby yawns, and snuggles into her mother. I feel a rush of want go through me. One day, I know, I am going to hold my own baby like that. Motherhood tempts me like it never tempted my own mother. It frightened her, and I'm not sure if that fear still goes away. But it's not the same with me.

Camellia blinks, and her eyes open like little slits. I see the color. The same bright brown as Lira's. And Riegan's.

Her eyes meet mine, and they are unblinking.

I want to freeze this moment, and memorize it. I want to be able to return to it, as I watch this little girl grow up. Say her first word: maybe a "mama", and then a "papa". When she first says "Riegan", or "Tara" - maybe it will sound like "Wee-gan" and "Ta-wa". When she takes her first steps. Plays with dolls. Walks into a classroom of strangers. Learns to ride a bike. Has her embarrassing moments. Falls in love. Get her heart broken. Shops with friends. Sings made-up songs... dances to music that isn't there.

I want to return to this exact second; this minute. So, I can remember what it was like to stare into those eyes and begin anticipating the adventures that they promise.

–

Review!