The Eclipse in Our Driveway

On April 8th, the whole cul-de-sac gathered in the Nguyens' driveway with folding chairs and cardboard eclipse glasses. We were right on the path of totality, and nobody wanted to watch alone.

As the moon slid across the sun, the light went strange and silvery. The temperature dropped. The birds went quiet and the streetlights flickered on at two in the afternoon. Then, for three minutes and forty seconds, it went dark, and there it was: a black circle ringed with white fire.

Forty grown adults screamed like kids at a rollercoaster. Mr. Nguyen, who is the quietest man on our street, stood up on his chair and shouted "Wow!" over and over. My daughter grabbed my hand and didn't let go.

When the light came back, a rooster somewhere started crowing, confused. We all laughed and hugged and stood around for an hour afterward, not wanting to break up. The next one here is in 2044. We've already agreed on the driveway.