It was April, and University City came alive. I usually walked during the morning hours, around 10 A.M., and I met other young mothers doing the same. People jogged or strolled past and smiled at us. I often received a “How handsome he is” or “Isn’t he precious?” and I couldn’t help beaming. I also realized that in all my months of pregnancy, I hadn’t explored my own neighborhood even once.

On Walnut Street, I noticed a gift shop, “Cabbages and Kings,” with an inviting window display. The panes of the window were painted in a springtime scene, and various dolls were arranged like children playing among the flowers. I left Michael’s stroller inside the entrance and hoisted him into the sling that I had draped across my torso. I opened the brightly painted purple door, which prompted a bell to tinkle, and entered. Michael screeched, but I patted his bottom gently and pulled him closer to my heart, humming a little Arabic ditty Mama used to croon to me. I only knew the rhythm, not the words—but Michael was satisfied nonetheless.

“Hi there,” came a gentle voice from behind the counter. “Who’s this good-looking young man come to visit us?” The woman had a mass of red hair streaked with gray, tied up in a bun atop her head, and a delicate pair of gold-rimmed glasses were perched on her wide, squat nose.

“His name is Michael,” I said, approaching and holding him up to her, as if for inspection. “I’m Hanan.”

“He’s a perfect angel,” she said, smiling. “My name is Anne, I own this shop and most of these are my creations. Let me know if you need any help or have any questions.”

“Your own creations?” I repeated. “Did you design that display window?”

“Oh yes. And I made everything in it—those dolls and the soap baskets. And the candles too.”

“Amazing. What a talent.” I gazed around the store, soaking it in. The etched glass and beaded wind chimes that hung from the ceiling, the baskets of candles that were attractively arranged and decorated, the small, painted boxes, decorated with flowers and rosettes.

“You know, I also have a bit of a creative streak,” I said, turning back to Anne, who had resumed what she’d been working on before I entered—painting a pink rose onto the wooden surface of a drink coaster.

“What kinds of crafts do you enjoy?”

“I make hand-woven baskets. It’s a Middle Eastern design, with colored flat straws.”

“What part of the Middle East?” she asked, leaning forward on the counter, planting her elbows on the glass.

“Pal- The Palestinian territories.” I responded.

“Interesting.” Anne had stopped painting, and was looking at me thoughtfully. “You should show me some of your work.”