penelope goravich | district 3, cb fin

I've been zoned out for the past ten minutes, blank stare from my perch in the windowsill. I'm aware of it on some level- there are times when I can feel myself slipping back into the present moment and I've gotten good at pushing it away. The sun set almost an hour ago and the kids have all been herded inside, so the cicadas are getting more and more brave with their calls, slowly filling up the quiet backyard.

I've been thinking. About lots of things. About family. About Dad, and how lucky he has been to realize that this- raising children- is what he's good at. It's what he knows. And it's funny to remember all of the times growing up when I was compared to him: the quiet ones. The ones who preferred things over people. Books, art, the never-ending hunt for the best lemon square recipe in all of District Three: these were all things to admire. Each, a place to put the latent wonder that constantly claws and craves at the back of my mind.

But now, since he's done his job of raising us, he's made it his job to raise others as well. And who can blame him? It's what he is good at. But he's doing that, and Daisy has a family of her own to worry about now, and I'm just- Well, I'm here, staring out of my window and sulking because I don't know what's meant to come next for people like me.

A knock at my door is what it takes to finally snap me back to the surface. I turn to find one of the younger children standing in the now-open doorway. "Miss Daisy said dinner's done," she said. I nod and smile, cupping her cheeks into my hands. "Thank you, Ava. Come on, we can walk together."

Now, it isn't me who they say is like my father. I fear I'm not like anyone anymore, in fact.