For weeks, news outlets announced the solar eclipse.
With maps indicating route.
Places to buy special glasses.
To protect retinas from UV rays.
Places to assemble to watch in groups.
Libraries, arboretums, parks.
Museums, clubs, schools.
I listened to all of it.
Acted on none of it.
Thinking Philadelphia not in the path of totality.
So there would be little to see.
The morning of the occurrence, my daughter called.
Asked me if I had gotten glasses.
Chided me for not preparing.
When will you see another event like this one?
I defended myself, I didn’t see Philly on its course.
Well, it is, she insisted. You’ll see a 90% eclipse.
Then her text barrage began.
Where to procure glasses.
Where to make observation.
Pushed, I called a few places.
All sold out of protective gear.
Even the arboretum at which I had membership, discouraged me.
You’ll never find parking, said the receptionist.
My distress was infectious.
Catching it, Bob hunted in the garage for a box.
Followed instructions in the New York Times.
Carving holes, covering one, piercing it with a toothpick.
Voilà, he proclaimed, a camera obscura!
The old-fashioned way of viewing.
Relieved, we went about the day.
Till two in the afternoon.
The moon starting its journey across the sun.
Neighbors pulling up chairs.
Around a central fountain.
Offering extra glasses, cookies, candies.
Checking out Bob’s box.
Projecting an image of the sun shrinking.
We all sat in friendly assembly.
Eating, chatting, witnessing.
The area darkening, a cool breeze blowing.
An eerie dimness settled in,
shrouding us in mystique.
Underneath a hidden sun,
phenomenon unique.
Lynn Benjamin
April 18, 2024
