𝐒𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐬 ☘︎ 𝐖𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐇𝐚𝐰𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐞

𝐄𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞

In the Meadow, the two boys play. Austin Thatcher, the one I call my husband, and my little boy, with bright blonde curls. I sit a couple of metres away, watching them, with my little girl in my arms.

Suddenly, she starts to cry. "Ssh, ssh, ssh," I say, rocking her gently. "Did you have a nightmare?" I whisper to her gently.

"I have nightmares too," I admit quietly to her. "Someday I'll explain it to you. Why they came, why they won't ever go away.

"But I'll tell you how I survive them," I decide. "I make a list in my head, of all the good things I see people do. Every little thing I can remember. It's like a game. I do it over and over... it gets a little tedious after all these years but..."

I look at Austin, who is playing with my boy. I think of Prim and Rue and Cinna and Boggs and all those who have aided me through these tough years.

But I'll do this for them. I'll continue to live for them.

They teach about the games in school now. Soon, our children will know we played a role in them. But I'm ready. I'll tell them about Rue, the kind friend I made in the arena.

About Prim, the girl who was so close to me I called her a sister, who also had the gift of unflinching kindness.

Of Cinna, the stylist who risked his life for me time and time again.

Of Boggs, who died so I could go on.

Of Finnick, who was so gentle and mistreated. So judged.

I'll tell them about how I survived it. Not about how it broke me. About how it made me stronger. Not about the strength I lost.

So, as I speak to my baby daughter, I finally make up my mind.

"But there are much worse games to play."