If distance were a language https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Travel , this would be my first attempt at grammar. I am sending you the simplest verb I can manage: I am leaving, and I am still here. So, welcome to “Holding Back The Last Hug : Postcards From The Aisle Seat”.

I folded the last hug into the lining of my coat and pretended it was ordinary. I am telling you this now because the truth fits better on paper than in the hollow of my throat.

To know the deets of jetlagged but joyful with our entry into Canadian territory, click on Jet Lagged But Joyful: Our Entry Into Canadian Territory – Wander, Feast & Thrive

Postcards From The Aisle Seat : Holding Back The Last Hug

I am writing with my hands still smelling of cardboard and curry, my fingers raw from zippers and tape. Those last days were a blur of hotel rooms and half-eaten takeout, folding plates into newspaper and deciding which photographs could survive. Every drawer I emptied felt like unmaking our life.

We treated the kitchen like a museum closing, eating out because the pans felt heavy with memory. There were boxes and a stack of receipts mapping ordinary days. I aimed to be practical, counting steps and checking off items, which steadied my face when the house looked back with its quiet things.

Handing over the keys felt like returning a piece of pride. I had turned that metal countless times—locking, unlocking—and when I let them go, I felt the weight of every morning. The basement locker emptied into my arms like a confession, and I kept moving because stopping would mean listening to endings.

We ate with our best friend, laughing to fill the silence. The meal tasted of gratitude; we spoke in fragments about future plans before falling quiet, as some things are too large for sentences. Later, in the hotel room, I lay awake counting tasks on the checklist until it felt like a lifeline.

Packing, An Act Of Selection & Betrayal : Postcards From The Aisle Seat

Packing was an act of selection and betrayal. I folded three and a half years into fabric, deciding which firsts to keep. Each item tucked in felt like a promise: carry this forward. The suitcases held the weight of every small victory and quiet fear we had survived.

The cab ride to the airport was a corridor of windows and lights, the city shrinking into a memory. At the check‑in counter I watched the scale measure our lives and breathed a sigh of relief when the numbers stayed under the limit, heavy with a sudden, sharp loneliness.

On the A380, the world narrowed to a tray table and the hum of engines. Turbulence reminded me that nothing is steady for long, yet I was grateful it was only a tremor. Meals arrived late, tasting like our departures: familiar and imperfect. I let a sitcom’s small jokes stitch the hours together while sleep came in stolen pockets—each nap a theft from the long road.

The middle of the journey felt like a long, slow unspooling. IFE lights blinked on and off like distant stars, and I kept a small, private tally of the hours until the next landing. Water was rationed to a quarter glass at a time and I learned to be satisfied with small comforts. When morning finally arrived it felt like a soft, reluctant forgiveness.

At Abu Dhabi Airport Of Coffee And New Carpets : Holding Back The Last Hug

At Abu Dhabi, the airport smelled of coffee and new carpets, and the walk between gates felt like a pause. The second plane was smaller, with closer seats, and I slept to let the time pass. Food came again, ordinary but enough. I watched the clouds, thinking of the city we left, the friends who became family, and the rituals that kept us steady.

Touchdown in Chennai felt like both a return and a beginning. Immigration moved quickly, and the conveyor belt finally spat out our luggage. Seeing our family at the exit was a bright moment—my niece’s hug embodied everything I had been carrying, folding the months of distance into a fierce present.

We loaded the trolleys and cars and drove away with the city opening up around us, the air thick and warm. Jetlag sat heavy in my limbs, but there was a strange energy under it: the feeling of being planted again. The memories we had packed would come out slowly, like letters from a friend, each one a small joy.

I am still carrying the small, stubborn light of those days—the laughter over takeout, the clink of keys, the quiet of an emptied room. These are not endings I can fold neatly away. They are the first lines of whatever comes next, written in the cramped, honest hand of someone who has learned how to leave and how to keep.