Memories of the Mockingjay

Chapter 1: Memories of the Mockingjay

I trudged down the street, sidestepping over the pieces of rubble that lay scattered before her. I walked to school alongside Rye, chewing on an apple and gazing up to the blue sky as we cut across the meadow by our house. I saw a yellow primrose jutting out from the soil and picked it, tucking it inside my bag. The summer breeze jostled the knee high grass and tickled my bare legs, as they breeze fluttered the hem of my yellow dress and swept my hair from my shoulder.
Suddenly, I broke into a run, sweeping my arms out across the grass, letting it flap against my arms as the wind pushed against me. The rays of the sun were warm on my face and I could hear Rye giggling as he broke into a run alongside me.
We came to a stop beneath the big tree at the top of the meadow, after realising it was far too hot to run. I wasn't surprised that Rye beat me to the tree, he may have been only 13 but he was tall and lean, and could run forever if it took his fancy. While I, at 15 struggled to run a few yards.
It was a shame we couldn't laugh like this with dad. He sits in the empty house next door to ours all day. He only leaves to see us for a few hours each night. Once I looked into the house next door. There was a plaque on the door that said 'Everdeen residence'
I didn't know who they were, or why he spent his time there, all I knew was that you could hear his sobs from our house.
When he wasn't next door, he was with old Haymitch. Haymitch was about 60, but he was an amazing man. When we were younger he told us made up stories of a Mockingjay who inspired the other birds to be free and fly. I loved them as a child, and I often found myself feeling nostalgic and asking him to tell them again, it's the only time I see dad smile.
I lay there beneath the tree, gazing up to the sky when Rye ran his hands through his limp blonde hair and said 'Cinder, we'll be late.'
'I'll catch up.' I lied, as he left for school.
Instead, I dipped into my bag, retrieving a pen and my notebook and wrote:
"Dear mom,
Sometimes I think about you, what you looked like, how you spoke, how you smiled, how you laughed. I hope I can see some day.
I wonder if I'm like you at all, if you'd be proud of me and Rye.
I'm sitting in the meadow dad told me about, under the big tree where you sat together and thinking of you. I hope I get to meet you someday.
Love, Cinder."
I put the notebook back into my bag, and pushed thoughts and questions of mother from my mind, as I got up and continued walking, but I wasn't going to school.