volcanicrock2

On Sunday nights, my family’s apartment in Istanbul is loud in the best way. Chairs scrape the tile floor, the tulip-shaped tea glasses never quite stay full, and there is always one more hand reaching across the table for bread. If you opened the window, you would hear the distant foghorns from the Bosphorus and, later, the call to prayer drifting through the narrow streets. By the time we stack the plates by the sink, the room smells of lemons, tomato sauce, and contented exhaustion.

And then, my phone lights up.