Because my house is so empty, I often wake up early, usually before sunrise and it seemed that if I were going to walk for exercise, this would be the time to do it, away from nosy and bothersome neighbors. At first it was very difficult and made my heart ache more, but as my daughter encouraged me—sometimes she would even come and stay with me on weekends and join me on my walks—I continued and soon I looked forward to it. I can’t explain why I enjoy it so much, other than to say that it makes me feel a kind of peace I have not known in some time. I enjoyed it even when my back hurt, which it no longer does thanks to my generous son, Radwan, who sent me a pair of gigantic white shoes that make me tall, as though I were walking on clouds.

I usually walk up the hills on the northern side of the village, which is where Um Lubna’s house is, just below the uppermost crest that overlooks the village. There are two ways to get there—I believe it is the loveliest spot in the village—the roadway that leads around Nawara and to the top directly, and the pathway, which eventually cuts through Um Lubna’s property. I always take the roadway instead of the path because the footing is better and the view is lovelier.

That morning the air was clear like water, with only a hint of diesel. The wind was strong and blowing against me, making it difficult to walk up the hill. If it were not for the sweater and pants I wore under my roza, I would have been very cold, as it was still early. I even had to tie my scarf tightly around my head so it wouldn’t blow away.

Because of the effort in fighting the wind, I was tired and I walked slowly, my cheeks beaten by the cold air. I was more than halfway up the hill, when I couldn’t go any farther. I stepped a few feet off the road and sat down to rest under an olive tree that was just across from Nadia Sulayman’s house.

Nadia is a very good housekeeper, and just as the inside of her house could not be cleaner, neither could the outside be lovelier. All around the house are rosebushes, and she tends them so well that they produce the biggest, brightest roses you have ever seen, purples and yellows and reds, the likes of which no one else in all of Nawara possesses.

“It is the special fertilizer my son sends from America,” she says.

“She has the whole bush imported,” my daughter says with contempt, or jealousy.

Whatever the reason, her roses are beautiful.