I always imagine a bird, soaring through the air, until it sees something below it, some crudely put together buildings, sad looking people. Either way, for some reason, this little bird tips its wings one way or the other until it's cutting through the space, the air until it's down by this pathetic excuse of a civilization.
And this little bird, perched on, maybe the rooftop of the tallest building in the little village, would sweep it's little bird gaze across the small town, across every shack of a home, with the decrepit shutters and rotting clapboards. But, the little bird's eyes would stop at two houses, where the falling down shutters would be drawn tight against the thin walls of the house. Where the joyful sounds of the celebrations in every other home are locked out.
Maybe, somewhere inside me, I'd like to be that bird. Not only would I be free from the only place I know of where you can starve in safety, I could see the forests that I hunt in, and the forests all across the rest of Panem that I would like to hunt in. I would be able to see the rest of the world, whatever is outside of Panem, if there is even anything outside of the barricaded walls that shelter us. What, if anything, is there to be sheltered from? Are there people, like us? Perhaps people who live so differently, not under the thumb of their ruler, who makes a damn holiday out of their children fighting every year?
Sometimes I envy that little bird, just because of the wings they bear, that can carry them away from any troubles, any annoyances. But, if push came to shove, could I … do that? Leave Prim, leave Gale? Leave them with some words that assured that I loved them, but not enough to stick with them through their problems?
Wings or wingless, we still pass Althea and Tug's houses on our way to our own celebration. It's one of the first years I can remember where both tributes were kids from the Seam. Children from the merchant section of town lead relatively better lives, and it's easy to distinguish a starved Seam kid from a merchant kid who's always had some kind of meal on their dinner plate.
"They're not going to win," I say quietly as we pass the two, quiet houses.
Gale presses his lips together. "They can't. It's not fair."
"Have two Seam kids ever been picked?" I wonder aloud.
Gale shakes his head. "No. Either way, little miss Effie Trinket won't be getting her winning tributes this year. Which means she's stuck being the district escort for 12 for one more year," his face loosens up into a crooked, sad sort of smile.
"I guess the odds aren't in her favor," I declare in her silly Capitol accent. Gale chuckles, nudging my shoulder with his as we make our way home.
Every year that the Hawthornes and Prim and I escape the reapings, we hold a little feast and celebration. Gale and I bring out the meat we've been storing and curing especially for the feast, and Prim uses butter and cheese she's gotten from Lady. Even my mother goes out of her way to celebrate it, digging out tasty herbs that make the otherwise bland dishes taste good enough to eat.
When Gale and I push open the screen door, Hazelle and my mother's gazes quickly shoot to our interlocked hands. I blush, pulling away, but Gale looks up with a cocky smile and holds the door for me.
Hazelle crosses the kitchen with some roast squirrel in her hands, and raises her eyebrows at me. But, her smile gives her away, and I rush towards her for a hug.
"This smells delicious," I breathe when I get a smell of the squirrel. "God, how in the world did you afford those spices?"
"Well, dear," Hazelle begins with a smile. "Oh, come on, love. You know Gale can weasel Greasy Sae out of anything."
I smile and nod. "Sure do."
Prim and Rory are the next to enter the kitchen, but it's more of a crash as they speed through at a run. Vick trails behind, one arm held back as he tows little Posy behind her.
"Be gentle!" Hazelle calls to them without ever looking over her shoulder. I watch her for a moment, singlehandedly manning all of the food preparation (my mother really doesn't do cooking, besides herbs) and keeping an eye on the kids. She is the quintessential mother — caring, hardworking, loving — while my mother is just a ghost of it.
Hazelle whirls around and lands a wooden spoon in my palm. "Go beat the herbs together," she orders. It's the nicest order anyone could be given, with Hazelle's sweet, rich voice, and hint of a smile on her lips. "Because heaven knows your ma can't do it."
I grin, and take the bowl in my hands as I mash up the herbs as best as I can. Gale lingers around the kitchen, haphazardly moving around, trying to silently offer his help. But, Hazelle beats him to it and shoves him towards the fire pit out back to watch the roast squirrels.
When she returns, she's absolutely beaming. "So you and Gale …" she trails off, nearly laughing.
My blush flames red. "We're just friends," I answer.
"Oh, honey," she replies. "I know. You don't have to cover it up. He talks about you constantly."
I look up from the paste of herbs. "What? He talks about me?"
"I wouldn't lie to you, would I?" Hazelle says. "It's alright, sweet. I get it. Young love."
I manage a smile. "Thanks."
"Everyone in town thinks you're going to get married someday," Hazelle continues.
At least her voice fills the void of my silent one. I let her keep talking, focusing on every mint leaf, grinding it into a paste with the other herbs.
She doesn't look up at me when she speaks again, almost as if she's thinking aloud and I just so happen to be there. "I wouldn't mind you, as a daughter-in-law. Another woman around the house … wouldn't be half bad. It'd be damn nice, in fact."
I roll my lips together, scraping the wooden spoon on the edge of the bowl. "The herbs are done," I say quietly.
Hazelle looks brightly at me. "Oh, sorry, dear! I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. It's just that, well, Gale really cares about you. I can tell just by the way he looks at you and moves with you. It's so nice to see him happy, he hasn't beamed like this since his father died."
I want to assure that it's fine, but as she continues on, my words grow irrelevant.
"I'm sorry," she apologizes quickly. "There I go again. Well, you know what they say about a mother and her son! Dear, would you mind getting the kids and your mother? The feast is just about ready," she talks quicker than I comprehend and I nod, hoping I caught it all.
Grateful for the distraction, I head towards one of three rooms in the home. The Hawthornes' house is bigger than ours, which is a thankful thing considering there's four kids plus Hazelle. The kitchen is the heart of the home, while just to the left is the bedroom. I pick the right, and head into the living room, which is nothing more than a couple of overturned boxes and a rotting chair.
"Dinner's up," I call from the doorway.
Posy flies up from her spot on the tattered and stained rug, dropping the cornhusk dolls in her hand. Vick and Rory look up from their wrestling match, and Gale stands up from the couch.
He offers me a warm smile — which is rather unusual for him — and then continues into the kitchen. I stand a little longer in the room, soaking up the warmness the kids had left in it, the warm embers in a fireplace. My home is empty, and always pitifully cold, but though the Hawthornes have no better heating system then some good logs, their house is so much warmer, so much fuller. The little belongings and knickknacks, lining along the shelves, cluttering the tables. They fill the space, make it homey, cozy, comfortable. The Hawthornes' home is distinctly theirs, yet mine could be anyone's. Is this what a little bird would notice? Could they notice the small details, the unimportant components in an otherwise simple picture? Would a little bird be able to feel what I feel, standing right here? Does the cold air of the wind across a little bird's wings make them immune to the warm, still air of a real home?
Gale's footsteps fade, but then his face is back at the door. "You coming?"
It's my turn to smile. "Yeah."
He holds out his hand and I gladly accept. His palm is just as warm as those warm embers I love.
We practically waltz into the kitchen, led on by the scents of everything Hazelle had put together. When she sees us, she raises her eyebrows and acts as if she's about to say something, but she never does.
Rory, Vick, Posy and Prim all crowd around the table, scooping the different food onto their plates. It's the richest meal we eat all year, and I can practically see their eyes bulging at the thought of having a full meal.
Regardless that we eat light to save the food for this feast, we all eat well anyways. Even my mother eats, and this year she even attempts to make small talk with Hazelle. I love Hazelle, maybe even more than my own mother, but she doesn't have an ounce of patience to put up with my mother's absentminded, wish-wash personality.
"To another year," Hazelle finally declares when my mother stops running her mouth about trivial little things. "To another year of safety, happiness, and health."
Everyone bows their heads and raises up their portion of water. We all bend forward to touch the wooden bowls we use for glasses together, and then happily tip it back into our mouths for a real drink.
Safety, happiness, and health.