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Willow
...
Thirteen years. Four thousand, seven hundred, and forty-five days. Today, the thirteenth anniversary of my life on earth. Dad struggles with the concept. He asks my mother how it could be. She just smiles at him, and then at me.
My small brother, Rye, only cares that it's my birthday for the promise of cake coming along with it. He looks greedily at the sugary treat topped with thirteen candles. It's decorated with gradient swirls of pink in every shade, no doubt the work of my father. And then there's an oblong circle—no...eggplant?—shaped patch of white. The seasoned icing skills of an eight year-old boy. Thanks, Rye.
Within my last minutes of being twelve, I look around at my family. See how similar my brother looks to my father, for the hundredth time. See the scars that mark my parents. I only know what happened to them by what they tell us in school. I know they played a big role in them. The tortures called The Hunger Games. Sometimes I hear my mother screaming at night. Then, quieter, my father trying to calm her, telling her that it wasn't real, that whatever she saw in her dream was only in her imagination. It leaves me to wonder what her nightmares are about. What isn't real?
Rye and I look through the memory book almost everyday. I've memorized every careful pencil stroke of my aunt's face. But I still can't accept that something that once was so alive could be still. My mother is always hesitant to tell me about Primrose. Her golden hair. Her round, pale blue eyes, like my grandmother's. Her visits are rare, but the resemblance jumps out at me. Prim's goat named Lady. Her cat named Buttercup, who passed some years back.
There are other people in the book. These people I know better. Some are alive, like Haymitch, Effie, and Auntie Johanna. Others, I was not fortunate enough to meet. I know of Finnick, whose eyes were like the churning sea. Cinna. Brilliant, courageous, and impossibly skilled with fabric. Rue, innocent and young, who flew like a bird among the treetops. My father's brothers. They all look like Rye, who received his name from the eldest of them.
They all are so important to me. Without them, my parents wouldn't be alive. The horrible Games would still exist, and I would not. Just looking at my parents, you can see the unseverable bond they share. One cannot not survive without the other. So when I blow out the candles, I don't wish for a new set of paints, or more sweets, or even for extra wishes. Really, it's not a wish at all. It's more like a silent thank-you.
To the people in the book.
...
Ughhh.
This felt very important to acknowledge, out of all the bits of stories that float around my head. Hope you enjoyed. Tell me if you really did.
