Waiting for the Shuttle

A big paw-shaped looking print sits stamped into the jewelry box snowbank across
from my car.

Most likely a tire track’s impress, backed up too far. Almost like the driver wanted to
plant their car, waiting for the airport shuttle – their engine quietly purring maybe,
radio on low at the park and ride, just like me.

Lavender-hued from the parking lot light’s diffusion, this print looks tiger,
a mark, the I was here.
–
One of my aunt’s last requests was that her clip on earring collection be given away at
her funeral.

Faceted crystal and rhinestone, seed beads and glass, metallic and pearl, the earrings were shaped like flowers and leaves, like small chandeliers and fireworks caught mid-
burst. They looked like bright candy buttons and juicy berries good enough to eat.

The styrofoam egg cartons serving as jewelry boxes were displayed in the church’s
vestibule. Aunt’s great-granddaughters chattered and oohed, looking over and picking
up earrings, deciding the ones they wanted.
–
It is 152 miles by bus from the park and ride to the airport. Space shuttles reach orbits
between 155 to 600 miles.

Is the next place right here, parallel to us, or out there somewhere?

Can we wear earrings there?
–
After the funeral, my cousin wore one of his mother’s earrings, a green enamel over
agate, as a tie clip.

His sister clipped a strawberry-shaped one to her ponytail band that held in her once
long black hair.
–
It is 1 am as the shuttle rolls in.

I turn off the radio, the college dj already having signed off, but not before ending his
set with a song by the band Black Country, New Road.

I touch the tiger’s eye clip I made into a necklace as I walk towards my ride.