For as long as I can remember, my great aunt America would tell us that this would be her last Thanksgiving. Her last Christmas Eve. Her last birthday. With a swollen face and dripping tears, she would warn us. America Lambarri, the fiery, romantic, dancing, competitive 4 foot 9 Cuban ball of love would come to an end. This would be the year. She said it when I was six, and I ached with early onset grief. She would say it again when I was seven, eight, eighteen. It became a tradition of sorts. America would blow out her birthday candles with a dramatic puff like it was her very last time, only to do it all over again 365 days later. Now ninety two, America is different. She can’t go anywhere without her walker. She can’t make it up the three flights of stairs to her apartment, but America still dances. And that is enough to make her happy. When she was breaking eighty, ninety two was never even a possibility to her. This is the story of a woman who has defied all her expectations. She’s here, she’s survived, and she lives.