The first bloom of the season came late with little fanfare and with even less warning. I left to hunt late, my nightmare of my father's death still fresh on my mind. The primroses that lined my house had opened overnight. The yellow centers burst with color amid the white. The sight took my breath away, causing me to pause in mid stride. It was a fluke that I even noticed; I had become so accustomed to their presence that I hardly noticed them anymore, and yet it would have been impossible to ignore the sight.
Then an even stranger sight greeted me. Peeta sat at the edge of my property, his legs spread out across the path. He leaned back on his arms, his face tilted up towards the warm rays of the gentle morning sun. Next to him sat a wicker basket and beside it a folded wool blanket.
"Peeta," I called out his name to register my presence. At the sound, he startled slightly in place. Twisting at the waist, he turned to face me and gave a gentle wave. "Beautiful day," he commented, as if we spent every day simply exchanging pleasantries about the weather.
"Indeed," I agreed with a soft click of my tongue. "Great weather for hunting and building," I added as I approached.
With a gesture to the basket next to him, he said, "Actually thought I'd take the day off. Thought I could entice you to a picnic in the Meadow."
Just the mention of the place brought unwelcomed thoughts and memories to mind, but I shoved them down. Peeta hadn't taken a day off from working on the bakery since he'd started the project. Thoughts warred in my mind, and I forced myself to stop for a second and breathe. He was taking a first step, extending a hand. Our fight was still fresh in my head, and I didn't want to do anything that might jeopardize starting another.
"I think, if you work hard enough, you just might be able to accomplish that feat," I granted. When I reached him, I offered him a hand up. Resilient as always, he ignored it as he stood slowly himself, his weight shifting to favor his good leg. It hurt to watch him struggle in any kind way. He had already suffered so much. If I could have given him my leg, I would have in a heartbeat. Of course, knowing Peeta, he never would have taken it.
"What do you think it will take?" he asked, dusting off his pants as he straightened.
Leaning down to pick up the basket before he could bother himself with the task, I gave it a light shake and judged the weight. "It depends. What do you have in the basket?" I countered. "And will I have to share part of it with Haymitch?"
"Nothing special," he admitted. Then, instantly sweetening the deal, he added, "Cheese buns. Cinnamon rolls. French loaf. Some of Greasy Sae's soup. Nothing special."
Letting the basket handle slide to the crook of my arm, I lowered my arm to my side. "You had me at cheese buns," I told him, though he clearly already knew it from the grin plastered across his face. "But I warn you, mentor or not, if Haymitch tries to touch a single one of my cheese buns, I will bite off his dirty little fingers."
"Haymitch isn't coming," Peeta said, almost stiffly. There was an underlying meaning beneath the words and I ought to have asked, but I knew if I did it would spoil the mood. To be honest, it felt nice to be able to joke and tease so openly and easily with Peeta; I didn't want anything to spoil it, at least not so early in the events. So I let the unspoken hang between us, left unresolved for further investigation at a later time.
"Well, I guess that just means more food for us," I replied, trying to leave the topic of Haymitch behind us.
When Peeta extended his hand out to me, I accepted it. Callouses now covered his once gentle hands, and they felt less and less like the hands of a baker's son and more and more like the hands of a working man. Was it that simple, then? To set your mind on a task, to work to get it done, and somehow transition yourself from a teenager to an adult? A sideways glance did not show Peeta morphing into someone else, but it felt as if perhaps he was growing into his future role as the town's baker. One day soon, he would take his father's place and continue his family legacy.
I wondered idly where that left me. Several instances over the past two years had taught me that I would never come close to matching my mother's skills when it came to healing and treating people. And I certainly would never develop the necessary bedside manner required. I carried more of my father's skills, with my hunting and foraging and even my singing. But they had recently closed the mine, for good or so they claimed, and even if they hadn't I never would have continued in his footsteps there.
"What's going on in your head?" Peeta asked, shaking me from my thoughts as I realized we hadn't moved an inch from where we stood at the end of the walkway.
"Nothing," I lied. "Let's go. Just the smell of the food is making my stomach grumble." Then I paused before we could even get a few steps. Silently handing him the basket, I turned back towards the house. Not stopping to ponder on the idea, I snapped two of the evening primroses from the bush closest to the front of the house before hurrying back to join Peeta once more.
I went through great lengths to avoid the Meadow as much as possible. Though bodies were no longer being carted from town and pitched into the ground, it was still abundantly clear what the purpose of the Meadow now was. It was no longer the grassy oasis on the outskirts of town. Even the removal of the electric fence around the perimeter did little to improve the sight or the mood of the space.
As we approached, I caught Peeta's hand once. Squeezing his fingers until mine hurt, I refused to let go. She's not buried here, I reminded myself for what had to be the hundredth time since I returned to District Twelve. They had never been able to identify her body in the aftermath of the bombs. Part of me thought it was a blessing. Another part ached at missing the closure I thought I might achieve if they had. Neither mattered once we reached the Meadow and I took in the sight before us.
Though the ground was flat once more, it was blatantly obvious it had been disturbed. Most of the Meadow, once a grassy field, now existed as a stretch of dirt. Little tuffs of grass burst from the ground in a few places but not many. It would be a long time before the Meadow resembled anything close to what it had been before, and even then I doubted it would ever be viewed the same by the people who knew the truth of what it now was.
Peeta motioned for the basket, and I handed it over willingly. My arm ached from where it had hung, and I was having a bit of difficulty catching my breath as I took in the sight. As Peeta began to spread the blanket out on the edge of the Meadow, I slid my quiver and bow to the ground, gently setting them down. Taking a few steps towards the middle of the Meadow, I dropped to my knees, placing the primroses gently on the dirt. One for my father, one for my sister. The stems of the flowers touching, the petals overlapping, just as I hoped my sister now joined my father somewhere else. Somewhere better.
I felt for sure that tears would come next, but my body withheld. Sadness crept through me, but the pain in my chest hurt slightly less than usual. It was because I was fresh off a session with the doctor, I reasoned. I was still riding the emotional high of the therapy I didn't want but desperately needed.
As the sight of the flowers grew harder and harder to witness, I turned back to Peeta. Sinking onto the blanket next to him, I leaned forward to peek into the basket as he continued to pull out food. My gut twisted at the sight of a woven bowl of fresh strawberries. My thoughts instantly turned to Madge and her family. Unlike my father and sister, they were buried in the ground beneath us, casualties of the war. I thought of Madge and her Mockingjay pin. I wondered how much of the symbolism was planned, and how much grew from the token itself. I remembered the mayor and his love of the strawberries Gale and I picked. I remembered Gale, and my suspicion of him and Madge.
None of it mattered anymore, of course. It was all in the past, where it would forever remain. But I couldn't help but miss my friend as I plucked a strawberry from the bowl and bit through its soft skin. I hoped her death had been quick and painless. I hoped they hadn't tried to make an example out of the mayor and his family. In the panic, I doubted anyone would have even noticed.
Forcing my thoughts away, I leaned against Peeta for support. Just the feel of his strong, sturdy shoulder helped ground me in reality. I wondered where I would have ended up if he hadn't returned. Would I have ever gotten off the couch again? Would Haymitch have even tried to get me to? Regardless, I knew it would have been bad.
Peeta's hand began to run through my hair, much in the same way mine had done to his in the tunnels. It was peaceful and relaxing, and it made me feel safe though I was surrounded by death. His other hand extended a cheese bun to me, and I couldn't mask the smile of eagerness as I gratefully accepted it.
We ate in silence for the longest time, me still leaning against him, him continuing to stroke my hair. Then a sound began to float across the Meadow, gentle and light. It took a moment for me to realize it was my own voice. The words came instantly, and I sang the bittersweet tune without thought.
Deep in the meadow, under the willow
A bed of grass, a soft green pillow
Lay down your head, and close your sleepy eyes
And when again they open, the sun will rise.
This time the tears came. In a trickle, they rolled the short distance down my cheek until they reached Peeta's shoulder and absorbed into the fabric of his shirt. His hand stopped stroking my hair, but wrapped around my shoulders and pulled me closer.
I sang the whole song, barely conscious of any of it, though I heard the song carried across the open field. Everything else remained silent as I reached the end. Only the rustle of the leaves in the trees further off could barely be heard if I strained my ears.
Peeta handed me a cookie, which I took and promptly shoved in my mouth to prevent another song from escaping. I didn't want to think about the song and the memories it brought to surface. I didn't want to think of little Rue, and how the trees reminded me of her district and how she reminded me of my sister and how the thought of them reminded me that I hadn't been able to save either of them.
"These are the same kind of cookies your father brought me after the reaping," I told Peeta, my mind already turned towards my first Games. They were sweet and melted in my mouth, though I stopped to study the beautiful patterns Peeta had added on top his with icing.
I hadn't realized Peeta's fingers had been tracing up and down my arm until they paused at the mention of his father. I inwardly cringed, berating myself for subjecting Peeta to the same terrible memories my own mind was dredging through. "Your father had the same voice as you," he mused, inexplicably bringing up my father instead of his. "I remember the first time I heard you sing." He clarified, "After that first time in school. I thought to myself, is it wrong to be so glad that your father had a voice like yours? That he was able to steal your mother away from my father, so that we could both be born and so that I could possibly, one day, have a chance of knowing that same love?"
He was talking about his own father too in a way, but not really. In fact, I honestly wasn't sure what he was talking about. I knew what he was saying, and my cheeks burned at the mention of the word love. But as to his reason behind bringing it up then, I had no idea.
He didn't elaborate more, and I didn't dare contribute my two cents. Instead, we sat side by side in silence, and for once, the silence carried by things unspoken and others left unanswered didn't weigh me down. I didn't stress about the reasoning behind his comment. I ate strawberries in the place where my friend rested eternally, and I leaned against him for support.