The Name That Dissolves

The back garden is overgrown with mint and tall grass. There are stones scattered across the ground, moss thick and green. I kneel near the rusted iron wheelbarrow. The air smells of damp earth and old cut grass. Under the wheelbarrow, I find a photograph taped to the underside. It shows the edge of a picnic table and four faces, but one face is blurred, a patch of motion where I should be. A dull ache rests in my chest, a specific weight I recognize as belonging to my sister. I try to call her name. The sound comes out hollow, and the name breaks into a thousand pieces, falling to the ground like dust.