As I brought the tin coffee can full of water to my family of seven people, I could see the sun rising up over the dark blue ocean. The two mile trek to the stream and back was quiet that morning. No big trucks rumbling down the paved road, no early risers walking their dogs down the street. It was just me walking with my tin can full of water. As I walked further, eventually I could see my house in the distance. The leaky tin roof glinted in the sunlight, and what little glass was left in the windows shimmered with dew drops. I could hear people moving around inside, and the smell of fried bananas wafted through the air. I pushed aside the curtain in the doorway and stepped inside. Immediately after I got inside our one room house, my mother came over to me and whisked the water away from me. She put it in a dented pot, and placed it on our stove that we had purchased not long ago from some man on the street. In Jamaica, it is not rare to see people like that. People so hungry and sick, on the street selling the last of their belongings, just to get enough money to buy their last meal. I was glad to have a roof over our heads, a family that loved me no matter what, and bed to sleep in at night. Even if the roof over our heads was leaky, and even if I had to share the bed with all of my siblings, I was still happier than the people who have nothing, and I was thankful for that.