It's a Sunday morning, our first in this new home, and I sit cross legged on the mattress that lies pressed up against the wall with the window. Neither my father nor I can find the screws that should put together our bed frames, so for now, this is how it is.

There is a cup of coffee on the floor next to me. It's my official coffee mug; the one I bought as a souvenir when I went with my journalism class to visit Al Jazeera America in the city. The same day the Ukrainian plane blew up.

It's a bittersweet moment. There is comfort in finally being in a home, no longer having to stress and worry about high rent or cruel, uncaring landlords. Yet it's incomplete because my mother isn't here. I realize she's "in a better place," but those words seem like a bandaid - something that people say when they don't understand how to face your pain.

Most days, I'm alright. I'm never truly happy, but neither am I in the depths of despair. It's more of a baseline existence. Something I've noticed is that when a situation presents itself that should cause me to truly laugh, or genuinely smile, or perhaps do my signature hop-skip-I'm-not-ever-growing-up-so-screw-you-I'm-excited jig, I can't. I look down inside myself and the small bottle of joy fizzles out before it ever gets the chance to bubble up.

Being sad forever is definitely not an option. But as long as I continue to live my life, and work to better myself and accomplish my goals, can I be allowed to grieve? It's only been five months. Her birthday is next month. And we haven't even hit the holidays and Christmas yet.

Autumn worries me. This is the first year that I find myself almost dreading it. It's always been such a comfort - the warm mugs of tea, the cool, crisp breeze and the crunching leaves, the decorations that my mother and I would put up together....do you see where I'm going with this?

But autumn hasn't arrived yet. We'll face that hurdle when it comes.

Off to church.