I am sending you "ghulal" for Holi

It is March 17, 1967.

My mother is in Bhopal, my father is in Statesboro, Georgia. The weather is warm and wet in both places. The distance so far. She writes to him “My Sweet darling love…I am sending you ghulal for Holi.” It is Spring. Her letter, tinged pink from the powder, looks like a smudged kiss. She writes, “So how is life! Everyone is missing you as Holi is drawing nearer and nearer.”

Actually we are missing you Mom. As the first anniversary of your death draws nearer and nearer, hearing your voice in these letters brings me to tears. I am forever grateful you gifted me your words. Any time I miss you, I turn to these letters and you are alive again and young, and beautiful, hopeful of being reunited with Dad.