When Lenore Dove visits me now, she comes neither angry nor dying. I take that as forgiveness. She has aged with me, her face lined with fine wrinkles, her hair streaked with gray. It is as though she has lived her life beside me through the passing years instead of lying in her grave. She remains so rare and radiant. I kept my promise about the reaping, or at least did my part, but she tells me I cannot come to her yet. I have to look after my family.
I first saw the girl at the Hob when she was just a baby. Burdock was so proud of her; he carried her everywhere. After he died in that mine explosion, she started coming alone, trading the occasional squirrel or rabbit. She was tough and smart, her hair in two braids back then, reminding me so much of Louella McCoy, my sweetheart from long ago. Once she volunteered for the Games, that nickname slipped out before I could stop it. I didn't want to let them in—her and Peeta—but the walls of a person's heart aren't impregnable, not if they've ever known love. That's what Lenore Dove says, anyway.
I wanted no part of their memorial book after the war. What was the use? What was the point? Just to relive all the loss? But when Burdock's page came up, I had to mention him showing me the grave. I felt compelled to tell them about Maysilee Donner, the former owner of the mockingjay pin. And how Sid loved the stars. Before I knew it, everything came tumbling out: family, tributes, friends, comrades in arms, everyone—even my love. I finally told our story.
A few days later, Katniss showed up with an old basket filled with goose eggs. "Not to eat. To hatch. I raided a few different nests, so they can breed all right." Never mind that we had roast goose for dinner. She isn't an easy person; she's like me, Peeta always says. But she was smarter than me, or luckier. She's the one who finally kept that sun from rising.
Peeta fashioned some kind of incubator, and when the eggs hatched, I was the first face those goslings saw. Sometimes they just graze on the green, but on fine days, we've been known to wander over to the Meadow. Lenore Dove likes it best there, and I'm content where she's content. Like the geese, we truly did mate for life.
I'm not sure I'll be here much longer. My liver's wrecked, and I only dry out when the train's late. I drink differently these days, though—less to forget, more out of habit. When my time comes, it comes, but I've no idea when that will be.
I know one thing, though: The Capitol can never take Lenore Dove from me again. They never really did in the first place. Nothing they could take from me was ever worth keeping, and she is the most precious thing I've ever known.
When I tell her that, she always says, "I love you like all-fire."
And I reply, "I love you like all-fire, too."
THE END