Carry On

I’ve never liked turbulence. Not that I’ve ever said anything about it, of course. Stuffed animals don’t talk. But every time the plane shakes, my seams tense, my stuffing knots up, and I wish I had hands to grab onto something. Or someone.

Of course, I have her. Emma. She’s nine now—too old to need me, but not quite ready to leave me behind. So here I am, crammed into the crook of her arm, my fabric fur a little matted from years of love. I used to be pristine, a crisp golden-brown with bright button eyes. Now, one of my ears flops lower than the other, my belly is slightly lopsided from an emergency stuffing surgery two years ago, and I have a suspicious-looking stain on my paw from an orange juice incident I’d rather not discuss.

Emma’s other arm is looped around her own belly, holding tight as the plane jostles. Her forehead is pressed against the window, eyes squeezed shut. She doesn’t like turbulence either.

I wish I could tell her it’s okay. That’s the frustrating part about being a stuffed animal. I’m always here, always listening, always watching—but I can’t do a thing. Not when she cried herself to sleep the night her parents told her about the divorce. Not when she spent hours packing and unpacking her suitcase for this trip, torn between excitement and dread. And not now, when she’s holding her breath every time the plane dips, pretending not to be scared.

The plane shudders again, and she grips me tighter. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re experiencing a little rough air,” a voice crackles over the speaker. “Nothing to worry about, just keep your seatbelts fastened. Should be smooth sailing in a few minutes.”

Emma doesn’t look convinced. Her mom is asleep in the seat next to her, head tilted back, mouth slightly open. Emma nudges her with an elbow. “Mama?” A sleepy grunt.

“The plane’s shaking.”

“It’s fine, honey,” her mom murmurs, not even opening her eyes. “Just air pockets.” Air pockets. I don’t know what those are, but I don’t like them. Neither does Emma.

She leans back into her seat with a huff, still clutching me, and stares out the window. The sky outside is a mess of gray and white, clouds rolling like ocean waves. I remember when she used to imagine shapes in them, pointing out dragons and castles and dogs with lopsided ears like mine. Not today.

I wish I could make her look at the clouds again. Make her see something good in them. The plane dips sharply, and her breath hitches. Her fingers tighten around my worn-out paw.

“Bucky,” she whispers.

That’s me. Bucky the Bear. She used to talk to me all the time. Whispered secrets into my ears, gave me voices when she played pretend. But lately, she’s been quieter. Leaving me on the shelf more often. Not forgetting me, not yet—just… letting me sit.

I don’t mind. That’s part of the job. Being there, even when I’m not needed.

The turbulence finally settles, the plane evening out. Emma lets out a breath, her grip on me loosening. I feel her shift, pulling me up so we’re face to face. Her forehead creases like she’s thinking hard. Then, with a sigh, she places me gently in her lap and reaches into her backpack.

A book. One of the big ones, the kind with chapters instead of pictures. She’s getting older. She flips it open and starts to read, her fingers absentmindedly stroking my fur. I don’t mind this either.

The rest of the flight is quiet. Emma reads, her mom sleeps, and I sit. Occasionally, she sets the book down and glances out the window again. The clouds have thinned, giving way to blue sky. I wonder if she still sees dragons.

The plane starts to descend, and she perks up a little. She likes landings. The way the world comes back into focus, tiny houses and roads growing bigger, turning real again.

This isn’t home, though. She bites her lip, pressing her nose against the window as the airport comes into view. She’s been talking about this trip for weeks—how her dad’s new place has a pool, how he promised to take her to a theme park. But I know she’s nervous. It’s her first time flying to see him alone. Well, not alone.

The wheels touch down with a bump, and she exhales. The terminal is busy. Too many people, too much noise. Emma holds me by one arm, swinging me absently as she walks. Her mom keeps a hand on her shoulder, guiding her through the crowd.

Then she sees him. “Emma!” Her dad is waiting near baggage claim, arms open wide. He looks different than I remember—new haircut, new jacket—but his smile is the same.

Emma hesitates for half a second. Then she bolts. I bounce against her side as she crashes into him, his arms lifting her clean off the ground.

“Missed you, kiddo,” he says into her hair.

I feel her smile against his shoulder. They talk for a minute, fast and overlapping, catching up on things I don’t understand. Then her dad glances at her mom.

“Flight okay?”

Her mom nods. “Some turbulence, but she handled it fine.” Emma glances down at me. I’d like to think I helped.

Her dad reaches for her suitcase. “Ready?” Emma hesitates.

Her mom crouches down, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re gonna have a great time, baby.”

Emma nods, but I can tell she’s holding back tears. Her mom sees it too. She squeezes her hand. “You’ll call me?”

“Yeah.”

One last hug. One last moment of hesitation. Then Emma takes her dad’s hand. As they walk away, she grips me tight. Not swinging me this time. Just holding on. I don’t mind. That’s what I’m here for. Bucky is so excited to be Emma's carry on. One day she won't need me, but thankfully that's not today.