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Someone on River Road is collecting ghost bikes.

Three times, the memorial to my sister, Lanie, has been taken from the pole where it was chained, marking the spot where a driver killed her as she biked home from work in 2012.

The bikes were on city property. Nobody could even see the bikes from his or her personal property. The city declined to move them because they didn’t impede or impact traffic in any way. They were only visible from the road. Whoever took them is a thief.

This seventh year since Lanie’s death has been hard. She would’ve turned 31. She missed my wedding in October. An avid cook, she missed enthusiastic descriptions of the food my husband and I ate in Vietnam. She missed a part of her life that I struggle to imagine. Thirty-one is very different from 24.

There are memories starting to fade. Her voice and her laugh surprise me now in videos. I reach for what she’d say or do in any given moment.

And she didn’t get to leave much behind — a few pieces of writing, a few worn books and jackets, photos from college parties that would probably make her cringe now.

My family has a small tree and stone at Hollywood Cemetery where Lanie’s ashes are buried. And we had the ghost bike.