Half Past Four at the Market, Two Minutes on a Foam Crate

4:30. The alarm goes off at four and I switch it off before it finishes. At this hour the neighbourhood market isn't open yet, but the trucks bringing vegetables from outside the city are already parked at the gate, and I can hear crates being lifted down onto the concrete. The smell of wet cabbage, of mud, of petrol spilled from the lorries. My hands are cold before they even touch water. I'm Diệu, forty-seven, and I've sold vegetables in this market for twenty years.

4:50. Setting up the stall. Morning glory tied in bundles, mustard greens set out in baskets, coriander kept apart in its own tray. Banana-leaf ties are soft and a little damp, with a smell of green sap. Chị Tư from the next stall leans over and asks:

— What's the price on the greens today, Diệu?

— Same as yesterday, chị. Depends on the supplier.

I answer without looking up, my hands still tying. Talking to chị Tư at this hour is like breathing, no thought needed.

5:05. This is the part I usually skip. The stall is ready, no customers yet, a stretch of fifteen quiet minutes that I normally spend scrolling the news on my phone, or counting small change for the third time. A few days ago my daughter sent me a piece about a one-minute meditation between two meetings. I don't have meetings. But thinking about it, a vegetable stall has two of them too: the one before customers, and the one after.

Today I pull the foam crate over, upside down, and sit with my hands on my knees. No timer, because I know if I set one I'll hear the chime in my head. My ears pick up: scissors cutting twine, someone laughing loudly over by the meat stalls, water running from the hose. The cold comes through the foam and into my thighs.

5:08. Not even two minutes and my head has gone. Yesterday there was half a tray of coriander left over, so should I order less today? I catch myself working out prices. Back to the sound of water. Then I'm working out prices again. Three times gone, three times back. My daughter also sent a piece on wandering thoughts when you're new to meditation; I haven't read all of it. Nobody sees, except chị Tư's cat on its pile of sacks, watching me as if it knows everything.

5:40. First customer. An old woman buys one bundle of morning glory, hands me a note, I give the wrong change, too much, and she has to call me back. I apologise and she laughs. From here until eight there's a whole stream of people, I'm just two hands and a mouth, and those two minutes slip away without my noticing.

8:15. A lull. I sit on the foam crate with a glass of iced tea, and I remember. Two minutes at dawn didn't make the whole morning different. I don't feel any special lightness, and if you asked whether I feel any different I'd say I'm not sure. There's just one thing: when the old woman called me back over the extra change, I didn't flap. Or maybe she was just easygoing today? I don't know.

9:30. Closing up the stall. I turn the foam crate upside down again in its old spot at the corner. Probably I'll use it tomorrow. Or I won't, and tomorrow I might scroll my phone again. That's all right too.