Under white tents in the parking lot, the Saturday market wakes up early. Trucks yawn open their back doors, and crates of peaches tumble out like sunrise.

A man sings out, “Fresh tortillas, still warm!” A girl stacks honey jars into a golden tower. The smell of roasted corn drifts by and tugs me by the nose.

Mamá squeezes every avocado, asks the farmer how his rain has been, then laughs at his answer as if they were old friends.

By noon the tents fold up like tired wings, and our bags are heavy with green and red and gold. I carry the watermelon home in both arms, proud as a farmer myself.