We bought a trailer and a quad

We bought a trailer and a quad for our biggest contract last month. "This has to be it," I said. Everything was working out perfectly. The day after, I was prepping myself for the first day of work—protein bars in my bag, gumboots, high-vis shirt, and planting bags.

"I can't wait to start," I said. "It will hurt so much to move again, but it will be so good." He put his hand on my shoulder. "You can stop now. You won't need it anymore." I just stood there, in shock. "What do you mean?" Then he said, "We won't work tomorrow."

So we bought a trailer and a quad last week, spray paint and new gloves, dozens of them because they get used up fast, but we need them anymore. "We lost the contract because someone didn't do their job." I was waiting for him to start to laugh, to say it was a fucking joke,

but he didn't. If anything, I thought he'll start to cry. We bought a trailer and a quad, for what? "We can't work again. Someone didn't do their job." "So what do we do now?" I dropped my protein bars. "I don't know, we

can't work. At all. We need this paper, we're waiting for it for over a year, and we still didn't get it. We can't work without it anymore," he said. I picked up the stupid protein bars and threw them to wall. At least it wasn't my phone. I've done that once. Not fun.

I was mad and angry, I didn't feel like that since I lost my home, my job eight years ago, the same day I figured my ex cheated on me. I watched the rain outside, the wind tearing the trees, "Well, at least we don't have to go out in this weather," was all I could say.

I was pissed at myself, because he deserves better, but that was all I could come up with. There was just one thought clicking in my head. "We bought a trailer and a quad, to be cancelled last minute." Back to square one, déjà vu. Same as last year. The only difference is that we have

even less hopes to find something else. We can't exist without this paper anymore, and no one's helping. Just because someone didn't do their job. I imagine, in public service, some pretty French lady walking around, making coffee in the office kitchen, dipping croissant in the black liquid,

chatting about the weather, and how she strolled down Montmarte last weekend. She doesn't care about the papers piling on her desk, while we go bankrupt in the process. The next thing I saw was my own two hands, desperately typing away on the keyboard of my computer.

I had to delete and type every letter three times. I kept messing them up. I was so frustrated, anxious, worried and I don't even know what. "Why am I doing this?" I heard my distant voice in the back of my head. It all felt stupid and wrong. I have a job, I have my own company. I shouldn't be

sitting here, looking for a remote job, only because someone didn't do theirs for a year. I should be out there, even though it's pouring rain, digging holes, planting trees and getting mud all over me. We just bought a trailer and a quad last week! I felt a teardrop forming in the corner of

my left eye (why is it always the left that starts to cry?) I glanced at my partner to see if he's looking. He wasn't, so I fake-scratched my nose, wiping it off with the sleeve of my jumper. "What am I doing?" It didn't make sense, I could be looking for tree planting jobs in other countries.

Five days later, with huge purple bags under my eyes, I emerged from the deep dark corners of the web, finding nothing but more reasons to be mad. We can't go anywhere, we still need the same paper. "Damn, aren't we damned?"

"What else can be done? Let's move to Canada!" He always wanted to go, it looks like the perfect time to relocate. Don't be naive, I wouldn't be typing this long poem if it would be easy like that. I'm just an old rag from some developing country, no one wants to grant visa to me, unless

I have a special degree or millions in the bank. I don't. But the weird part is, and this is the part I’m reluctant to tell, I have no idea what to do or how to do it anymore, and I kinda don't even care. These moments in life keep happening, and each time they come back they are worse than before,

and I don't know what to do with them. Why is that when I'm out in the wild, living from a single backpack, not knowing what's next I feel peace? But when the same happens in the safety of my home I can never trust that some God or whoever is responsible will take care of me again.