Connective Tissue V

Gazing at the Sun.

I walked yesterday as the moon passed before the sun.

Families and couples had gathered in clusters across the drought-bleached fields, some gazing upwards, others with homemade colanders resting on knees, on paper, on the ground before them. Voices held momentarily by the air before disappearing.

I noticed how the light fell onto the ground, tried to keep its shape, then darkened into stillness, as though another layer were pressing the sun into the earth. A cool air momentarily passed me by as I walked with the heat of its rays at my back.

I did not look directly at the sun. I did not see the eclipse. I cannot tell you what it looked like.

I can tell you that my shadow began to blur at the edges, as if I were being erased. That the shadows on the trees were like giant nail clippings, dancing and shimmering. That on the tree-sheltered pathway between the fields I choked up with tears and, for a moment, wanted to fall to my knees and worship the earth.

I can tell you about the fox who crossed my pathway for the third time and turned to look at me. About the strong scent released by the trees and plants, a smell like nothing I have ever known. About the rivulets of sweat running down my neck.

And about the group of young people who beamed with absolute joy when I walked past them.

“Success?” I asked.

“Yes,” she replied. “I’m so happy.”

And she was.

Her eyes wet with tears.