I was photographing in a small boutique owned and operated by a woman from West Africa. “Which country?” I asked. “Oh, I am a mix. From Cameroon and Sierra Leone.” I acknowledged her response with a head nod, and then continued to photograph while she chatted with two other women. I was careful not to bump into the young boy who was tossing and rolling a ball across the floor. There was an abundance of African fabric folded in perfect squares and neatly stacked on the far wall. On the opposite wall pointy-toe shoes with matching clutch purses were stacked. Lots of them in all sorts of colors! Light aqua, lemon yellow, powder blue, emerald, silver, deep red, and gold. It was eye candy, and I was tempted to buy rather than photograph. I had almost finished with the shots, and while maneuvering around the women, I noticed the hands of one who wore a hijab. I made an internal note of her hands. I took the final picture in the space. I glanced at the women’s hands again while she continued to speak with the owner and the friend. When I look at the photograph I think of many things, obvious and not so obvious. However, gentrification comes to mind. There is history in her hands. There is history in Harlem. Her hands are seen in Harlem, but go further back to another land and another time, even before this woman’s time. I love the way my mind travels when I walk around Harlem. I can only imagine the future absence of hands like this as parts of Harlem become more gentrified.