Don't be a sad American.

It's 7:58 am, I'm listening to Desi Arnez and musing over my grandmothers Spanish. I wish I could place her in time, so that my grandkids can see her as clearly as I do right now. She's alive and well, in her 70s and has played mother to me since I was two.

Earlier this week she helped me find a mattress, I live in a studio in the heart of downtown, I don't own a car and believe me the novelty of being a city dweller is beginning to dwindle. Most of my friends have moved out of the city, into cozy suburbs with spouses who have cars. I'm still on first.

I'm still where I was, writing blogs on busses and praying my brain will come up with a new environment but only staring at the empty Maya screen.

Everything reminds me that I'm a work in progress and I have to be patient.

I wanted to give Mama a house and all I have been able to give her is a couple of thank yous and debt.

In April I wished I was dead.

I have to remind myself that moment by moment is truly worth living for. That in spite of the student debt I have moments in church with mama, that I have conversations over coffee with my Aunt Ducky, occasional emails from my mother.

The laughter from my friends , the moments they're eager to help me. That I must take it all in stride because nothing in life is guaranteed or permanent.

I hope one day I can convey why I raise my voice, why I argue, why I am so repressed or why my relationship with my dad is so complicated.

How hard it is to even type this out.

That at one point in time it was literally just us three vs. the world.