EPILOGUE
They play in the Meadow, the chubby toddler girl with the dark curly hair and brown eyes, and boy with blond curls and blue eyes. Peeta Jr. helps her to her feet after she stumbles. It took five, ten plus years for me to open my heart again, but when I did, Cinna was there waiting patiently. I always knew that it was not his true desire to bring fashion to Appalachia, though, he does love this land and its people.
I just know that I've been blessed to have my best friend here, sharing my life, blessed to have found another gentle, artistic man, who complements the hunter within me, understands me, and shields me from my nightmares.
Even though Cinna has ten years on me, Prim comments that I appear older than my husband. I smugly tell her that my wrinkles are those one often receives from having a little sister.
When we had little Rue, she seemed to have given back some of those lost years. I would have never have predicted how much of a better person her and Peeta Jr. would make me. They had indeed returned some part of my soul that I had lost in the arena.
The questions are just beginning. The arenas have been completely destroyed, the memorials built, there are no more Hunger Games. But they teach about them at school, and the boy knows we played a role in them. The girl will know in a few years. How can I tell them about that world without frightening them to death? A place where Aunt Prim would not have been given a chance to go to medical school in the Capitol. Where people like Haymitch would not be allowed to start a farm. Where loving grandparents, like my mother and Peeta's father, would not live into retirement age due to the lack of food and health care.
When Uncle Gale comes over with his kids to play with Peeta Jr. and Rue, I'm often reminded of those times. The fierceness in Gale's eyes never completely went away. Marrying Madge did much to heal his own wounds, along with his duties as Sheriff. Luckily, he doesn't like to talk about those dark times, so when we break for lunch during our weekend hunting trips, we focus our discussions on work and kids.
Cinna says it will be okay. We have each other. I also have my journal that my mother suggested for me to write. For now, we can make them understand in a way that will make them braver. But one day I'll have to explain about my nightmares. Why they came. Why they won't ever really go away.
I'll tell them how I survive it. I'll tell them that on bad mornings, it feels impossible to take pleasure in anything because I'm afraid it could be taken away. That's when I make a list in my head of every act of goodness I've seen someone do. It's like a game. Repetitive. Even a little tedious after more than ten years.
But there are much worse games to play.
THE END