Old Souls

          “Just some photos of people I met during my travels,” she says in a detached tone.           I point inside. “May I?”           She swallows, then shrugs her shoulders. “Be my guest.”           I’m not sure why I’m drawn to the collage. Maybe it’s because I think it’s going to give me some insight into Solange’s personality beyond the information she sent me. Now that I’m close to it, I can see that Solange is in every one of them. Looking relaxed and content. With people of different ages and racial backgrounds. All smiling proudly. “They’re wearing hotel uniforms.”           “Yes,” she says, appearing at my side, her arms crossed over her middle. “They’re the folks who clean the rooms. Or the bellhops who bring up people’s bags. When I was a child, my mother would always task me with finding out the name of the person who was responsible for cleaning our hotel room. Before we checked out, she’d leave a tip, and I’d leave a note, usually consisting of a terribly drawn pictur