At Christmas, there's joy and magic. But sadness and loss are present, too.

It’s been several decades, but I can still remember how magical it feels to go to bed on Christmas Eve, knowing that in the morning it will finally be time to open the presents under the tree. 

My younger brother and I would wake up early and pad down the stairs, eagerly awaiting our parents. 

I was only 8, however, when I learned that sadness would forever be intertwined with this day for my family. 

It was Christmas morning 1987 in Salem, Oregon, and my brother and I had just finished opening our presents.

Then the police came to the door. 

My Aunt Amy, 26, and her boyfriend Marty had been killed by a drunken driver just minutes from our house.