Perspectives

Her Father

Prim's giggles and excited cries are so loud that I can hear them clearly over the din that the hundreds of people gathered in the middle of Town are making. Tonight is the only night of the year where all of us District dwellers, both Town and Seam, meet and mingle with no thought of the divisions that we have foolishly created for ourselves. The square in front of the Justice Building is turned, every year on this night, into a colourful, musical arena where all the merchants set up their wares, enthusiastic musicians play on stage, and where the whole area is decorated by the artists from 12 to reflect the beauty and magic of the Moon Festival.

I remember my grandfather telling me as a child that many years ago, before the beginning of the Fourth World War, and before the dropping of the Bomb that nearly wiped us all out and which made the land recede, there was a celebration on this same night called Christmas. This was before organised religion was banned with the creation of Panem, in a time where people still felt the need to trust that there was something beyond them to give a reason to their daily strife. Then the War and the Bomb came, followed by Panem and the Capitol, and little by little, people preferred to believe that there was no God, rather than a God that allowed their life to crumble before their eyes.

I sometimes do wonder if there is anything beyond the mundane struggles of my daily life as a miner, husband and father, but I know well enough not to externalise such thoughts. From our infancy, in Panem we are made to believe, in the Capitol we are forced to trust, and that is the beginning and the end of it. Any other truth is inconsiderable. However, I push these musings aside as I look down to see my excited four-year-old daughter clinging to my hand, her face alight with glee, as we make our way through the square to celebrate the beginning of the Longer Days that will slowly lead us into spring and then summer. Katniss is on my other side, tall and more solemn than an eight year old ought to be, her enjoyment of the night evidenced by the muted smile she gives me before giving my hand a little squeeze.

This is the one day of the year where I try to treat my girls and to make them feel no different from the fair skinned, blonde merchant girls who Prim so ironically resembles. Each year, as from the beginning of autumn, I try to set aside some coin every week so that I may not deny them little gifts from the stalls, even though they have learnt early on in their lives not to ask for anything. I'm proud of my girls, and this is the night where I can reward them for being so brave to endure the year that would have just passed, and to encourage them to do the same in the following winter months. This is also the night where their mother just lets me spend time with them, since this is so rare due to my long shifts at the mine, and remains at home to prepare a sparse feast with which to treat our daughters.

The snow starts to fall, and the crowd reacts in delight as the white flakes cover the sharp, ragged edges of our district and slowly give the square a muted glow as they allow it to reflect the warm lights of the stalls. Even the fiddlers on stage change their tunes into something softer and slower, and the whole atmosphere is turned into one of general, uncommon, happiness. Prim hops in excitement, and cries in delight as she catches sight of the stall of the Mellarks. "Please Daddy! I just want to look!", she begs and she tugs at my arm.

Tonight we can try to go beyond looking, I tell myself, but I don't want to spoil the surprise for her, especially if I find that the money I have in my pocket is not enough for the Baker's fresh wares.

Wheaton Mellark mans his stall with his usual joviality, but his ready smile falters just a little when he sees me approaching with my girls. It's been nearly fifteen years, but I know that things are still unresolved between us, and I also know that it is mostly because of me. My wife May and I had fallen in love with each other while she was still promised to him and even though Wheaton and I had known and respected each other before that, I never found the courage to go up to him after our toasting to apologise, or even to just talk about it. So the closure never really happened, and the tension never quite dissipated between us. I know that Katniss and his youngest son are in class together, since my daughter mentions the boy sometimes at home, but as parents we never really tried to mingle at school fairs or concerts. I guess I always felt throughout the years that it was best to let sleeping dogs lie. This method worked brilliantly for my conscience.