Upon cleaning out the darkest depths of my grandmother’s fridge, I discovered food that is older than me. This expired in February… 1987. This can saw Reaganomics. This can saw The Challenger explode. It saw the fall of the Soviet Union. It was around when Tupac got shot. Both times. This can is older than The Simpsons. #bruh
They play in the Meadow. The dancing girl with the dark hair and blue eyes. The boy with blond curls and gray eyes, struggling to keep up with her on his chubby toddler legs. It took five, ten, fifteen years for me to agree. But Peeta wanted them so badly. When I first felt her stirring inside of me, I was consumed with a terror that felt as old as life itself. Only the joy of holding her in my arms could tame it. Carrying him was a little easier, but not much. The questions are just beginning. The arenas have been completely destroyed, the memorials built, there are no more Hunger Games. But they teach about them at school, and the girl knows we played a role in them. The boy will know in a few years. How can I tell them about that world without frightening them to death? My children, who take the words of the song for granted:
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. Here it’s safe, here it’s warm, here the daisies guard you from every harm. Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true, here is the place where I love you.
My children, who don’t know they play on a graveyard.