In the twilight of ’88, when the sun dipped low and shadows stretched across the land, my ancestors bartered with life. They traded sustenance for survival, weaving threads of existence through the loom of necessity

Three loaves of bread, warm from the hearth, exchanged hands for a goat’s weathered skin. The bread, a promise of full bellies, and the skin, a promise of warmth against the biting cold. A transaction etched in the ledger of survival.

And a fat hen, plump and clucking, found herself in a dance of trade. Her feathers ruffled, her eyes sharp, she strutted her worth. Two pumpkins, round and golden, rolled into the hands of my forebears. The hen’s clucks echoed in the evening breeze, a currency of sustenance.

But now, here I stand—a modern merchant of time. I peddle my hours, neatly packaged in eight-hour blocks, to the highest bidder. The corporation, faceless and insatiable, feasts on my mortal essence. Each tick of the clock, a coin tossed into their coffers. My life, a commodity traded on the stock exchange of existence.

And it fucks my brain—the relentless march of seconds, minutes, days. The ledger no longer bears the weight of bread or goat skins. Instead, it groans under the burden of spreadsheets, deadlines, and profit margins. The currency of my soul, measured in productivity, efficiency, and quarterly reports.

But sometimes, oh sometimes, I ache for the moist soil—the earth’s embrace. To plunge my hands into its dark richness, to feel the pulse of life beneath my fingertips. Long, red worms wriggling, whispering secrets of growth and renewal. To sow seeds, tend to shoot, and coax life from the ground.

For what is usefulness if not rooted in the soil? What profit can compare to the satisfaction of nurturing life? So let me trade my corporate shackles for the calluses of a gardener. Let me grow something useful—a harvest of meaning, a bounty of connection.

And perhaps, just perhaps, as the sun sets on another day, I’ll find solace in the rhythm of seasons—the ancient trade of life for life.

Copyright © Beatriz Esmer

Dry Pastel Art