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She was like a bird. All of her. How her hair feathered at the ends and her grace in the woods. I just hoped someday I could help her soar again. Some people saw her as a Mockingjay. The Mockingjay. But to me she is little different than a dove. The ones that call in the cool summer mornings before the sun rose. The call that welcomes peace after the death of winter.
No, to me Katniss was like the world itself. All of those things bundled up. The power of the Mockingjay, peace of a dove, and necessities of each season. After all, the world is necessary for life. To me, Katniss is my world. One to be worshipped despite the patched fissures and one to be so, so grateful for.
But the world also gave back to me. She does everyday.
So I tapped the edge of my brush on the tip of my nose. I watched as the fragments of sunlight the melted through the curtains dance on her own nose. The bridge making a perfect hollow to capture light and dark. And I painted that feathery hair. Katniss was still asleep, but I know she wouldn’t mind. We’d become almost like one being in these ten years. Operating together and filling in empties for the other. I gave her the gold that her shadow required. And I captured to an extent in my pieces.
Lately the dreams had gotten worse again. They were better for the two of us for years. But for no apparent reason they stormed my head again. So every night, before I could even think about sleeping, I listened and I felt. For a devastatingly steady thrum. Of a heart that wasn’t my own but was more vital than anything of mine. As her body became limp with dream, I needed affirmation, that it wasn’t limp with death. So a studies and I focused and I listened. Ear against the hollow of her chest that my head fit so perfectly in. Sculpted just for me. This is how I could sleep the easiest. The only way I could. She didn’t mind.
Birds need seeds from spring flowers to survive, but flowers need birds to spread their seeds. So they can each flourish. Even if that yellow flower was just a weed.