Once a year they gather around me with flowers and candles and presents. Once a year they remember me, they rest of the year they try to forget me. Once a year, I remember who I was and what I've lost, as they come by one at a time and talk to me. This year, they came by with a new member, my name on hers, as they show me her small face, hands, eyes. I tear up, unable to move or touch her, Her small hands reach out to me and I feel my tears fall to the ground as I float above my grave. I hate this horrible day, the only day I am remembered. I wish they would all forget, whenever they remember my heart breaks with theirs. They talk about the life I would have had, one filled with the love and laughter I remember, and the tales of my past adventures. They talk and talk as they gather around a slab of concrete with writing on it and discuss me more than they ever did when I was alive. It makes me hate death more than I already do, the fact that I can't live these wonderful memories with them, the fact that they won't ever forget me now, not with her name, the fact that I love that they loved me. My sister laughs as she brings out cruisers, the only alcohol I could stomach, and all the adults down one each and laugh. My mother pulls out a thermos filled with two minute noodles, the ones I loved to sneakily eat, everyone takes out a bowl and a fork they brought with them and they all eat. I made them promise to do this every year, and they never break their promises. Then, halfway through the noodles, my father starts to cry, just like every year, my sister holds his hand, my mother hides her face. They all break down one at a time and sob, and all I can do is watch - crying - as they mourn me again. I thought time was supposed to heal this pain but it hasn't. "She was taken too young" they say and I feel it, of course I feel it, I was the one who died. They didn't have to see the world move on and keep turning, see other people achieve what I could have, see awards accepted on my behalf, see my name disappear from the mouths of my friends. They can only wonder and discuss how 'she had so much to live for' as if I chose to die. Year after year, I am reminded on the life I am missing out on, and year after year I realise the tormen will never end. Not until everyone else is gone. Not until they've joined me. Year after year, I hope they don't join me for a long, long time.