Sing. My throat is tight with tears, hoarse from smoke and fatigue. But if this is Rue's last request, I have to at least try. The song that comes to me is a simple lullaby, one we sing fretful, hungry babies to sleep with. It's old, very old I think. Made up long ago in our hills. What my music teacher calls a mountain air. But the words are easy and soothing, promising tomorrow will be more hopeful than this awful piece of time we call today.
Sunday, June 30, 2013
The Hunger Games - Pg 234
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