I can’t help it. Every time I leave a place, I start thinking about how “this is the last time I’ll be doing this”.
The last time walking to the office.
The last time buying groceries at that particular grocery store.
The last time meeting a friend in a particular place.
About a month ago, I had a ton of lasts that I didn’t know would be my lasts.
Suddenly, my life was uprooted. An email, and then another. My flight changed and 48 hours later, I was at the airport.
I didn’t want to get on the plane. My heart broke and tears streamed down my face when I felt the wheels leave the ground.
I didn’t get my lasts. I didn’t get to appreciate them.
I didn’t get my last walk to work. That walk that took me down some chaotic streets. That walk with buses and bikes and cars. That walk where people stared at me wondering what on earth a foreigner was doing walking around in that part of town.
I didn’t get my last lunch at the tea shop just down the street. I didn’t get to speak Nepali one last time to the lady who owned it, who never failed to break into the biggest smile at my attempts to cross that language barrier.
I didn’t get my last cup of tea on the roof with my landlord. Talking about music and life and making fun of each other.
I didn’t get my last afternoon of saying “food” when my board members asked me what I wanted for lunch, and them jokingly, threatening to beat me.
I didn’t get to go through my usual routine of saying goodbye.
And I don’t know when I’ll go back. I don’t know when I’ll get to see my Nepal family again.
But when I do. When that plane finally breaks through the clouds, and I see the hills, the dust, the colourful buildings of Kathmandu.
I will be soaking in every moment. I won’t wait for the lasts again.
Because I never know when that last time will be.