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In my most recent life I was born into a thriving village. They had a big carrot farm going, and someone was experimenting with fire. Few had clothing, so I decided to set up milkweed farm.

I set out, an eager child, with a basket of carrots, taking in the nearby biomes (swamp to the south, prairie to the east, grasslands that extended north for a ways) but mostly looking for some milkweed. I was fortunate, and found a plant quickly, and it fruited not long after. A few couple trips carrying a basket of seeds, then a few carrying soil, and the farm was planted!

The village had four waterskins and a bowl, and one of my brothers had a backpack that he used to make regular trips for water. I did a few runs with a basket of waterskins to get my farm going.

It was a frustrating, before I was articulate enough yet to get the others on board with my plan, but by the time the first crop came in we made the first bits of clothing I was able to say a few sentences about it, and from then on I had lots of help tending and planting the milkweed.

Another villager was a skilled trapper, and regularly brought in many rabbits for us.

I'd say there were around six or seven of us. My mother, the elder, passed away. We told her that she had done well.

It took time, but our numbers swelled, almost all of us were clothed, at least a bit, and we had plentiful cooked rabbit and carrots. Some of the others started to work on some walls, to leave a more lasting legacy for the next generation.

None of us were watching the crops closely enough.

None of us noticed the carrots dwindling.

The famine came gradually, and then all at once. A cousin or nephew dying wasn't common, but it happened. The elements are harsh, and even when the harvest was plentiful and our bodies warm, death was always at our heels.

I scoffed in that middle aged way at the first dead. Imprudent. I went about my business. I didn't hear or didn't want to hear the deaths that followed.

It was only when my sister and her child died in front of me that the picture snapped into focus. Our carrot baskets - the pride of the village - were empty. There were only a few seedlings in the ground, most of our food crops weren't even watered. Some might blame the problem on our unchecked growth, I don't think we willfully abandoned a single child.

But the milkweed.

I'd diverted water. I assumed that some cousin or sibling or nephew or someone was being mindful of the carrots.

I was a fool, and now I was the last living person in sight. Our village had become a graveyard. I frantically searched for any food, and spotted an overlooked cooked rabbit in a basket.

In the end, only myself, my brother the water bearer, and a niece of ours survived. We were able to get the carrot farm going again, and we lived our twilight years cautious and chastened.

My niece had two children. We bundled them up in all of our clothing, and taught them of the prudence that we had lacked. I can only imagine how the world looked to their eyes. I think one of them took our warning seriously. She listened at least.

I hope her lineage still survives.

I hope they're warm.