The Year with no Color

Today is Holi, but there is no color here. Just a teaspoon of powdered pigment laid out in a deep windowsill near an arrangement of my stepson’s portraits. It’s been just over a week since he died from a sudden illness and my husband and I have been following traditional mourning rituals in our home: no meat, no eggs, no onion, no garlic, no turmeric, no hair cutting, no fingernail clippers, etc. He will not participate in any holiday or celebration for a calendar year. This is a challenging one for me to agree to, because as I sit here in an empty house, looking out my window at young people laughing down the lane, drenched in fuchsia and turquoise and daffodil yellow, with festive music buzzing in the air, I find myself feeling even more drawn into grief. I want someone to come calling, Aunty, Aunty at my gate. To touch my cheeks with color. To beam mischievously while welcoming in a new season. But instead, this will be a year void of color.