In a shady courtyard in Urfa, I asked the wrinkly-eyed father of a tobacconist if I could draw him. He seemed confused but kindly accepted, leaning against the tree he was sitting under for support. His eyes darted back and forth between my face and the white page of my sketchbook, occasionally straying toward his son and the small gathering crowd, searching for answers. He indulged me for a good twenty minutes and the çay that his son offered me, and when I handed him the book for his approval and signature, those eyes of his formed a brief film of wetness.
I have missed sketching.