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Turkish delight. First time I had it was in Scotland. If perfume was sugar, it would taste like that. It was pink and gooey and perfect, lingering in the mouth like the scent of roses. It was thick in my hands, leaving powder on my fingers.

Was it Braemer? Ballater? The places blur together in my mind. It was at the Games. I am sure of that. There, Nani got me a tam. Its band was of purple velvet. Its weave reminded me of a sunset on a loch. Later, I’d pin on an amber and gold pendant with a spray of feathers just behind.

We’d traipse through Cromarty. I’d roll up my pant legs and get my toes just barely wet. I’d gather seashells from the shore and find out later not all were empty. My box of Scotland treasures now smells strongly of lavender and rotten shellfish, from my bits of dried thistle, to the chip off a standing stone, to the white marble of Skye.

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