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I was born a female to a budding civilization, my mother named me Storm. I was her last child, I never met my siblings save for a couple brief moments. I grew up watering berry bushes but aspired to something more, so for my adolescence, I created a milkweed farm. My dreams came to an end when my till broke & I had no knowledge of how to fix it or create another one. After wandering through the village for a year, I came upon a woman whose time was dedicated to creating omelets. I asked if I could help & she said sure. My first few omelets were great, but then I gave birth in the middle of another & ended up burning it, which caused it to stick to the rock. While tending to my new child, who I named Annie, another person scrapped the egg off my rock. I carried Annie around the village, showing her the different parts & telling her how she'd fit in. Annie was wiser than me, however, for as soon as she could handle a stone, she took off to contribute & I did not encounter her again for many years. Shortly after Annie begun integrating into society, I birthed another child before I could begin my omelet process again. I named this daughter Bailey, but sadly, she did not live very long. I set her down by the fire for a moment to feed myself, & she wandered off, perishing from starvation just a few feet away. Years passed then. I had picked up a basket & foraged dozens of eggs from the geese up North. Our tribe never knew hunger for how many omelets we produced. I spoke with my mother, the second time since she had taught me how to be a berry farmer & I integrated into our family. She asked me how life was & how her grandchildren were. I told her the sad tale of Bailey. I learned how hardened of a woman my mother was as, to the fact of my deceased child, she said, "It happens" as though I spoke of the burnt egg instead. I birthed one final child then. This one, my mother named Hibo. My mother hobbled some feet away as her final moments creeped upon her. As Hibo suckled my chest, I gushed about what a wonderful teacher she had been & how grateful I was to her. The breeze that would carry away her ashes graced our village, her final words were an instruction: “Don’t do anything naughty with my corpse.”

Hibo grew to be our favorite, everyone's favorite. She was adorned with sheep's pelts & a hat fashioned out of a wolf’s head. I learned of Hibo's generous nature as, one day, she handed me that hat she had been gifted from an unknown cousin. Gratefully, I told her she could have it back the day I perished. My children, then grown, contributed to society as they would. With just a few years left, I ventured back north for more eggs. When I returned, with a new harvest of eggs, I discovered that Hibo had taken over the omelet production. With pride & sentimentality over my mother's recent passing, I had a similar chat with my daughter. With just as much pride, I think, she informed me of her omelete success, & just like that, she birthed another child. Tragedy striked then, however, as I watched my child’s inability to be productive while caring for her child. Unable, myself to feed children from my now sunken breasts, I could only unproductively hold one after another as my own child stood, mumbling about how she “could not pick them up.” Knowing the second granddaughter I held in my arms then would die as the rest, I quietly named her Bailey & set her down as Hibo disappeared to the North, unable to face her tribe, I thought. I encountered Annie shortly after these horrors. As naturally as I had those years ago, she resumed Hibo’s dismantled projects strewn across my once glorious omelete haven. With grace she alternated between the two children in tow & the eggs. Knowing I had less than a handful of years left on this earth now, as my stomach shriveled & my hair silvered, I gifted Annie that hat fashioned from a wolf’s head & exchanged a few simple words of explanation as to why she was receiving this treasured item, not Hibo. Taking a final pie from the plentiful baskets circling our ovens, I toured our great village as my time crept upon me. Our sheep roamed freely around now, milkweed bunches were found every twenty feet, fires were set at convenience, the buddings of a carrot farm were being made, & the berry farm was as fruitful as ever. I settled back down next to my child & her children, near those fires that never expired through dozens of omelettes. I perished at age 57 from starvation, rather than eating another pie that would’ve gotten me through those 3 final years; preservation of the young ones was a better investment, as it had always been.

To Hibo & Annie & the plethora of cousins we encountered along the way, thank you for your service & dedication to this family. May our bloodline continue for generations.