The gravel crunches

beneath my feet

as I walk up to Dana’s bench

and feel my heart

fall.

She was then

the age of my sister now,

only three years old,

on a plane

never arriving

at her destination.

The age of my sister–

can’t read,

can’t write,

can’t even ride a bike.

Her life lost

before she could learn,

learn to read,

to write,

to ride a bike,

before she could live.

I kneel down by her sister’s bench:

Zoe.

My familiar name

in a whole new light,

signifying

a whole other person,

another life

unfinished,

another Zoe.

Our names the same,

yet our lives so different.

I throw a pebble

into her green, illuminated pool.

A pebble,

from me

to her,

from one Zoe

to another.

Zoe

meaning life.