“Ismallah, ismallah!” I took my baby niece with great care, my heart tiptoeing in that house of love. Her small mouth opened in a delicate yawn and I moved closer to drink her scent. There is nothing quite so pure, as if pieces of God live in the faint breaths of babes. In Falasteen’s yawn, I caught a whiff of divine promise, bequeathed even to us.
