Frottage

When I was younger, my grandmother use to bring us to a cemetery. It was old. Forgotten. Off the side of a major road, tucked away behind some trees. There were maybe only a handful of graves, each one more faded than the last. If I hadn’t been told what they were, I would have assumed they were simply stone.

But my grandmother would hand me and my brothers come paper and pencils. And we’d do rubbings of the tombstones. The harder we pressed on the page, the more this person came back to life.
Their name. Their birth. No longer lost to time. For in that moment, even if brief, it was as if they never left.

I guess that’s why you keep coming back, isn’t it?

Even after I forgot you. Your voice. Your touch. It’s in the moments where I feel my heart is under the most pressure that your name comes up.

Faded, but in that moment, even if brief, it was as if you never left.