It has officially been 365 days, 2 hours, and 21 minutes since the death of my boyfriend Elliot.
My siblings surround the Christmas tree, ripping at wrapping paper like their lives depend on it.
Like their childish, innocent lives depended on the speed in which they unwrap their gifts.
It makes me mad.
Of course, it's not their fault. They know nothing better.
But to do something with such passion that your life depends on it is dangerous.
Your life, your purpose, should never depend upon anything.
Elliot's life- should never have depended on the actions of another driver.
But it did.
Elliot lost his life, his purpose, because a drunk 17 year old couldn't be bothered hailing a cab home.
Sweet Elliot.
Memories of his past existence are everywhere.
They fill the kitchen where he used to wrap his strong arms around my waist as I made us hot chocolate; pouring ridiculous amounts of mini marshmallows on top.
They fill the living room, where he and I would wrap fairy lights around the tree; before giving up, and wrapping the lights around each other. We'd kiss, in a tangle of decorations.
Memories of Elliot fill the back yard, where we'd have snow fights, and make snowmen. "Maybe one day we'll make our own little snowmen." Elliot would whisper, as I placed a hat upon the snowman's head.
Elliot would never have kids- and the thought of that made me crumble inside.
My mother emerges from the kitchen, she looks tired, and frail. "Amy, it's your turn to open a gift."
