The blue suitcase lay open on the carpet, its metal latch cold against my thumb. It was an old piece of luggage, nicked at the corners from years of travel we had taken back when things were different.
Emma sat cross-legged beside it, her small fingers working at the edge of a white sheet of puffy cloud stickers. She peeled a sticker free and pressed it onto the fabric of the suitcase, smoothing it three times with her palm to make sure it stayed flat.
“The sky has five kinds of clouds, Mommy,” she whispered, her eyes fixed on the blue nylon.
“That is right, sweetheart,” I said, repeating the words to keep the room quiet. “We are going to see them tomorrow.”
She rocked slightly from side to side, her shoulders tense under her yellow pajamas. Her plush airplane, Buzz, was tucked under her left arm, the worn fabric grey against her sleeve. I had bought Buzz for twelve dollars at the pharmacy down the street, hoping the soft wings would give her something familiar to hold during the long hours in the air.
“Seat seven A is by the window,” Emma said. She did not look at me, but her thumb stroked the satin propeller of the toy.
“Yes, seven A is our window,” I said. My hand went to my right ring finger, where my silver wedding band sat loose. “We paid four hundred twenty dollars for those tickets so you could watch the sky the whole time.”
She peeled another sticker, a smaller cloud, and placed it exactly two inches below the first one.
Our trip to Boston was our first journey since my husband, David, passed away nine months ago. I had spent weeks planning every step, trying to build a wall of safety around my six-year-old daughter. If she had her window, and her toy, and her routine, I knew we could get through this without a crisis.
“It is just a flight, Tina, you can do this,” I whispered to myself, turning the silver band around my finger.
Emma stopped rocking for a second and looked up at me. “Is the plane big?”
