Today an old woman heard me speak on the royal mile.
She watched me suspiciously, examining me to see if I was real.
You’re American, she said.
I am.
She put her hand in mine and said I hope you’ve found some comfort.
With a kiss on the cheek and a shuffle of her shoes, she turned to walk away. Her presence lingered on my skin, clung to my cheeks like a ghost.
Thank you, I whispered, hair caught in the wind like a flag.
I hope they have too.

Maggie Torres