- [x] Set timer for 20 minutes - [x] Start writing When I'm actually there, working, it is sometimes ok. When we are laughing, when we are teasing each other, when we are getting the trailer ready for the day with prepping, cutting, juicing, squeezing, checking, stirring, listing, carving. When we see what we have ready, the colors of the tomatoes, the sharp angles of the rough chopped onion, the glistening acidity of the tomatillos, the drab and irregular avocados, the sauces and the tortillas, prepped for lunch. We feel like we have accomplished something together. We are ready to make our fortune. The feeling is that we have worked hard, as a collective. When I count our receipts and calculate our ins and outs, legs sticking to the vinyl chair with the slightly bent leg, eyes welling under a single LED that shines a little too blue, my feeling is disbelief. I see us making money, finally! I forward a little extra to our loan, a little extra to our savings, and try to find one small way to make our lives better. This week, I'm getting a new bulb, one marked "very warm." When I watch her breathe, eyes partially open, belly flowing out under her shirt, sprawled under messy sheets, after the roller-coaster of a couple that works and lives together, I worry. We are so close to making progress, so close to turning the corner. But, that could all go away. We have no cushion, we are gaining so slowly. We are chugging up the steep slope of success at the beginning of our ride together, but we could crest the top and have the bottom fall out, like a wooden track holding up the "solar-coaster" at the beach we went to last year. One little thing, and all of this goes away, and we are back where we were.