Should I watch the sun go out standing beside a campfire in the backyard of my childhood home, or should I drive to the shore of one of the finger lakes and watch the sun go out with my feet in the water? Should I climb to the top of a waterfall? What about the creek at the bottom of a ravine? Should I lay on my back in the middle of a street, like in The Notebook? Should I try to write about it, or just stay present in that moment? Should I take a photograph? Should I stand in a parking lot and look up? Should I go to the courthouse, pick up a marriage certificate, find a priest and ask my family to sign as a witness? No, I don’t think so – I was the one who wanted a longer engagement, anyhow. I think of the new mother going into labor during the eclipse. Will I be able to see the stars? Will it be cloudy? This won’t happen again in this town for 175 years. Should I smoke? No, fuck that – imagine being high when the sky goes dark in the middle of the day.  Should I listen to music? Cat Stevens, maybe. “Moon Shadow.”

I think, knowing me, that I will bundle up in a puffy jacket and a brand new rain coat, make a mug of tea to keep my hands from getting cold, sit on a porch, and complain quietly about my arthritis until the light comes back.