Haymitch can whistle.
I had never noticed it before, although I think it's unlikely he ever did. But now that he is an old man he has begun.
He only knows how to complain lately, he says that death will take him soon, that his knees are too worn, but miraculously Peeta manages to get him out of the house. Especially when he brings them.
Now there is a trail that cuts through the woods to the lake. Everyone comes here to bathe, or fish, or spend the afternoon. It is a very pleasant place after all. With the vast expanse of water reflecting the mountains and the blue summer sky. And even though Haymitch complained about his old body with every step he took, I know he was glad he came.
Children like ugliness. I've learned that from being a mother. They like my flame-scarred skin, they like to touch and explore their father's prosthetic leg. And they like Haymitch. His wrinkled face, his white hair, his constant frown. They brought him katniss's flowers from the lakeshore, and every shiny rock they could find. Haymitch reserves all that remains of his tenderness within him for my children. He ruffles the little boy's blond curls and says, 'Thanks, buddy.'
And then, as I peel Katniss's potatoes that the kids brought me and roast them over the coals for us to eat, I can hear Haymitch whistling. I don't even know if he realizes what he's doing, that something, just a little bit, is left inside him of everything the Capitol tried to take away for so many years.
