Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games.

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Thirty years ago, this day in District 12 was know infamously as "Reaping Day". It was noted for being a time when parents cried and openly regretted having children and young kids from but twelve to eighteen clung to each other and trembled. Everyone mourned and dreaded learning who's lives were about to be destroyed by the Games.

But that has long since past. On this day as much as any other, parents no longer have to worry that they might be forced to witness the slaughter of their offspring. Children need not grow up hating every birthday that draws them closer to their twelfth year. In all districts, everyone rejoices for the blessing of freedom Providence has bestowed on them.

So why is it then called "Weeping Day"?

Because of the grandparents that will no longer see the bright smile of their rosy cheeked granddaughter. Because of the empty place that the mother will never again set for her little boy. Because of the twin who still calls out at night for her brother, but has nothing left of him but a space beside her in bed.

Because of the children who lost their mother...

Because of the man who lost his only friend...

Because of the woman who lost her new husband...

Though men and women, boys and girls, may never again have to cry for themselves and the safety of their own families, there will still be wet eyes for those that were lost and never to be seen again in this world.

But, every year there are less tears shed. Less red and swollen eyes. Less painful memories haunting the night. Each year the Reaping becomes more and more like an old story, a nightmarish myth.

So... perhaps one day... we will have a different name for this day. But for now... and a long time afterwords... it will be known as "Weeping Day"...

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There were tears in my eyes as I finished reading the paper. Beside me, my husband smiled proudly and wiped at his cheeks.

I looked up from where I sat on the couch into my twelve year old daughter's anxious face. "You have your father's way with words." I choked out.

She let out a breath of relief, knowing this was my way of showing my approval. "Really? You really think it's good?"

My husband nodded. "Honey, you have captured the heart of I think every man and woman who was old enough to remember the past. You have done a wonderful job."

My daughter smiled and gave us a tight hug. Her little blond brother looked up from where he was playing with his toy trains. He noticed our embrace and quickly abandoned his engineer hat to squeezed himself into our group.

"Don't forget about me!" He cried. We all laughed at the puppy-dog antics of the little seven year old.

"By the way, dear, you need to sign your name." I remembered suddenly.

"Oh yeah!" My daughter hopped up and ran over to the desk. She took out a pen and wrote in small, careful writing,

"Primrose Mellark"

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