It was two years later when I received the letter. A passing Tibetan stuffed my arms with letters, all written in his own handwriting.
The letter read: Because I am no longer able to hold my son's hand and build Chang'an for the whole life, I only hope that in this life I will be proud of the world and go through the blood and sand many times, in exchange for the cloth clothes and thorn hairpins in the next life, I will carry willows and raise flowers, and my hair will turn white.
I was unable to cry, but I was also unable to hold on to this heavy letter. Those letters turned into snowflakes and were carried deeper into the Tianshan Mountains by the wind, never to come back.