Totality

Kerry Trautman

On a Monday, thousands drove by car-load
toward my town to get closer to the total

solar eclipse. The day before, Sunday, my
16-year-old son texted from his café work: A guy

just died in front of me. Eclipse Monday—first
sun warmth in winter weeks, with all five kids,

we sat on deck chairs and waited with special
glasses in-hand for the moon to drift how it was

supposed to. Sunday, after the man crumpled
to the café floor, his family shouted for a doctor

like on TV, and someone did chest compressions
to the rhythm of “Staying Alive,” coffee mugs

on the table clinking, until paramedics swept
in, ripped his shirt, paddle-zapped his chest.

On Monday’s deck I played sun-moon-starry
songs on my phone. Stray cats hid in the garage

or bushes or the neighbor’s tarped-boat or shed.
Sunday, the family watched the stretcher fed

into the ambulance, followed its lit siren
down Main St. Waitresses sobbed alongside

the Coke machine. The manager flipped
the front sign to closed, and my son texted

me and I tapped are you ok? Monday we slipped
our glasses to check the progress of the chip

missing from the bottom of the sun, the moon
taking bigger bigger bites of light. Air cooled

and silvered as we all waited in awe
together for that darkness everyone

knew was coming but all the same
managed to surprise us when it came.