Emma Ardern | District 7 (wip)

Emma Ardern
100 Years Old | District 7 | Female

After a hundred years in this place I have many things to say. One very pale eyebrow raises in your direction, daring you to interrupt. Don't think of me as opinionated, think of me as knowledgeable. I'll have none of that grandma shit, I may not be young but I know there are people older than me. She gives you a wry look, as though she had gotten the comment before and was deflecting it early this time. Don't you go telling me they're all dead. The expression on her lips is almost a scowl, but there's enough of a hint of humor to let you know she's only half-serious. My husband, for one, is a few months older than me and he certainly isn't dead. She laughs, the creases around her mouth deepening. As for me, why I'm in as good of health as I can be. I'm still able to walk and most certainly able to talk. One hundred years may have made me look the worse for wear but I am most certainly not. Listen here, and maybe you'll learn how to live like me, and keep on living. I'm not about to just stop and kick the bucket, no way. I can't let John outlive me, we made a pact. After seventy years of marriage, or was it eighty, I don't remember but it's not that important right - the old geezer still knows we're married and I still love him, that's all we care about. She looks lovingly at the door, where you presume John is behind. Then, her eyes return to you and there's clarity in them that you wonder was there before, and if it will last.

I was born before the Dark Days, before the Capitol stomped on all our heads and told us we were no better than dogs. Her mouth twists and this time there is no humor in it. It wasn't a whole lot better than now, but at least we didn't have to see two youngsters thrown into a pit with twenty-two other children. They rarely come back. Aside from Mackenzie and Jacinta none of them have returned. In all my life I barely remember any other victors from Seven. I know there have been a couple girls in the past who have come close, but we've never been lucky enough to see them come back in one piece. Not that any of them come back in one piece. Sometimes the dead are more whole than the living. The noise she makes could have been a laugh, if it wasn't so sad. Take that Arbor for example. He's still so young but he looks like a beggar. At the rate he's going he'll drink himself to death, especially now that he's lost a son. Yet another young kid to die before I do. It's not right. I may love life but I'm not supposed to be living longer than everyone else. At least I have John to be old with me. Once more her gaze leaves you to glance at the door, but it's only a moment before she turns back.

Most of my memory is still with me, but like anyone I have trouble remembering being very young. She gives a shrug, her shoulders barely moving up and down. My parents didn't make many remarks about me when I was young, probably because I lost them when I was eighteen. The words roll from her tongue like they meant nothing. It seems that eighty years had been enough for her to overcome her grief almost completely. I was still young to them at that point, so they never had a reason to remind me what it was like to be any younger. At this point in my life it doesn't make much of a difference. I'm not the type of woman to sit down an mope about the past. There is too much past - if I sat around and moped about it I would be here for the rest of my life. Her eyes suddenly spark. Ha, though who knows how long that is, so maybe I wouldn't be there very long.

They told me all about when they were young, however, and much of that shaped my life. My mother was the daughter of a rich man. My grandfather owned a very large plot of land with numerable trees on it, all laid out in neat rows. The humor that had always been in her face seems to flare for a moment. Every time my mother talked of her father she would get a little smile in the corner of her mouth - without knowing, she makes the same little smile - and each time she would always mention how he had to have his trees planted in perfect rows. I quickly got the feeling that he was anal retentive. It seems that some of that passed to my mother, as she had always drilled tidiness into my habits. Now I see a dish on the counter and I immediately deal with it. Her hands are seeking for something to grip, as though there should be a dish for her to put away, so she eventually takes a grip of the hem of her shirt. John always bugs me with his habit of leaving things out, or shoving them into places where they don't belong. She could never hide John from anyone, not with the way her eyes flick to where ever he is each time she mentions him. He's just like my father, and it seems I'm just like my mother.

My grandfather made sure that my mother was always well taken care of since his mother had died in childbirth and hadn't been around for either of her descendants. There's a flicker of something in her eyes then and you think that maybe she wasn't as over her grief as you first thought. In school my mother always tried hard and did well, though she did have her times of defiance against my grandfather. She looks down at her shoes, though there's no reason you can think of as to why. Somehow she always managed to hide it, another bit of rebelliousness, and it only encouraged her. There's a small grin on her face and it brightens as she raises her head to meet your gaze. I'm sure, just as my mother was, that he really did know all along what she was doing. It would be the same way I always know what John is hiding - not that he bothers much with that anymore. The grin grows amused, as though John hadn't realized it all on his own. Having that connection with someone allows you to know them better than they think you could. It's why I always try to be straightforward with John. He used to think it was a good quality of mine, now he just grumbles about me being a bitter old prune. Her laugh is hearty and it seems she takes so offense from it. He's just as gnarled as I am; at least I still have a decent amount of hair left. It's clear that the couple spent plenty of time poking each other with verbal sticks. Though it seemed that Emma might take more to whacking than a gentle poke.

It was when my mother was sixteen that she met my father. Of course, they never knew that they would be married at that point. My father was coming in on a contract build for my grandfather. She snorts, seeming to sense an impending eye-roll. He never truly worked for my grandfather, so it wasn't the same old story but it was pretty close. My father had grown up with both parents. His mother was the tough one of the family, probably why he was used to being told what to do by women. It was a rare trait back in that day. Lately it seems to be a new survival skill. Her laugh is almost a wheeze but she hides it with the ease of practice. Well, the men better realize that because we women already have. My John knew it from before we met. He's so much like my father, though there are some differences. He's not dirt, for one. She chuckles, the sound airy and cracked, but strong. Yeah, yeah, don't speak ill of the dead. She waves a hand in dismissal at the notion. I love my dad dearly but after nearly eighty years of not having him around I'm sure even he is laughing.

My father was never poor, but he wasn't ever rich either. His family was well enough off that they managed with everything, though treats were a rare thing around his house. From the age of ten he was helping his parents with one thing or another. He especially liked helping his father with repair work, something he continued to enjoy until he eventually was hired to a construction crew. It was through this crew that he was hired to the contract job on my grandfather's land. The little smile from before returns. Even he always commented on how much my grandfather needed to have everything perfectly ordered. She makes a small noise, a cross between a sigh and a laugh. My father told me that sometimes it's better to let the trees grow on their own, but he didn't dare tell my grandfather that - he was always a little scared of the man.

I have little flashes of memories from when I was really young. Looking up at my mother as she cooked and thinking how tall the world was. Back then, I was so short and I couldn't even see level with the seat of a chair. I'm not sure how old I was then, but I think I couldn't have been older than about three. She's looking at you as she speaks, but there's a distance in her eyes that tells you she's not fully there. There are other pieces too, like being carried through the woods by my father, and the sound of him chopping trees. She suddenly is looking at you again, out from behind the veil of time. I always loved the forest, perhaps it's because my father raised me to be that way. With the joined passion of my grandfather and my father towards trees, and nature in general, I had the option only to enjoy nature. Her smile is wry, but it fades slightly as her gaze slips back into the past.

My life in the beginning wasn't very eventful. Up until I was five my entire family remained alive and well. Both of my sets of grandparents were healthy and active, as well as a huge part of my life. When my parents were out working my grandmothers would sit together and watch over me, knitting and crocheting blankets, hats, scarves, and anything else the could design. Her smile isn't very strong, but it stays in place. Together they made me a blanket that I slept with for a good number of years. I don't know what's become of it, but I feel like it's still somewhere. Maybe I'll find it again, maybe I won't. The look of loss in her eyes touches you deeply. I hope I do though. Suddenly she laughs and you look at her, confused. I always caused problems for them. Tangled yarn, missing needles, unraveled work; I caused a right mess. They always laughed, though, and simply fixed the destruction I had done. Her hands clench down on the gown she wore, tugging absently at it. She looked like she might be about to cry but there was a stubbornness in her bottom lip that told otherwise.

I loved my grandmothers so much, they really were very sweet old ladies. She crooks a grin at you, noting her own word use as she sits before you - aged and weathered - talking about the aged ones she loved. Like the rest of my family, I miss them. The edge is not as sharp as it once was, but it still stings. As though you can feel what she does, a prickle rises behind your eyes. Loss really did not completely leave.