The book had belonged to them

The book had belonged to them.

I knew this by the margin notes,

the way certain pages bent back on themselves,

the small pencil mark on the last page—

not a bookmark, but something else,

a question,

five words

in a handwriting I'd forgotten

I could recognize.

Did you ever think of me?

There.

In the gutter of the page,

pressed hard enough that the graphite

had scored the paper underneath.

I pressed my finger against it,

feeling the ridge,

the weight of someone

wanting to know something

and never asking it aloud.

Five years.

The pencil had faded.

The question hadn't.

I don't know what the right answer was.

I don't know if there is one.

I just know I'm reading it now,

five years too late,

and the handwriting

is shaking my hands.