VI
Finnick wasn't allowed to come home at once. As the youngest Victor of the Games, much was made of him in the Capitol. It was a sensation. It was a feat unlooked for. It was a point of pride for his district. The words and praise that reached us made my soul shrivel and burn. I fervently held onto the hope that Finnick was not too damaged by his experiences.
When he came back, Finnick was different. He looked different. He was beautiful, something I had never fully noticed before, nor ever truly appreciated. Because, you see, he was kind to me when he didn't have to be. Kindness, strength. The only things I asked of life. I knew I possessed the one, but felt I was still searching for the other.
He looked different. But he didn't act different. My relief, initially, was tenfold and for a time, things seemed to carry on. He and Shad went out onto the barges every day with the men, he came to dinner like before, we went swimming. Then, he had to go on his Victory Tour and when he got back from that, life still went on. This is one philosopy, my son, I have clung desperately to all my life:
Life moves on.
But then Finnick started being summoned to the Capitol more frequently. He'd be gone for long stretches of time, maybe two to five months. When we asked, he only said that he had certain duties now as a Victor; he was no longer a fisherman. There was a fleeting sadness, I remember, when he told us this, which just as quickly dissolved into a a beautiful smile.
By this time, I had switched from seaweed crowns to a craft with wider appeal: jewelry-making. I was a collector. Some of it was treasure, but most of it was just garbage, I think. But I never threw it away. I used some of the more impressive items in my collection of shells to make necklaces, one for my mother and two for some girls who had been nice to me over the summer. When my mother saw hers, I could see an idea forming on her face. That's how I ended up managing a seasonal booth at the market with her when I turned 11. We made and sold jewelry. My fingers never ached so much that autumn.