Tika by Saradha Koirala
Goodbye takes the form of a blessing. My family press tika on our foreheads rupees into my palm. Mountain-high through time and air the red paint dries, the rice grains fall leaving a trail that could surely lead us home. But sometimes you can't tell what you've seen until you close your eyes and the imprint reveals an inverted world of darkened brights and a pale sky a halo