We had driven 1,200 miles. Through the saguaros, the dust-clung Nevada desert. The windshield stickered with bugs. Hill country. Bluebells everywhere. That morning we learned about high and low clouds, that the south Texas sky would be veiled by both. We set blankets on the hillside anyway. Donned our glasses, tipped our heads. I prayed, or something like it. Held my breath as the sky darkened. The winds roused a few cumulus puffs, brushed them east. Everyone cheered. People jumped up and down. In one benevolent flash, the moon’s body blurred the sun, save for a scant ring of gold.
Makayla Wamboldt lives in San Diego. Her writing explores land, spirit, and community. She holds a B.A. in English and Creative Writing from Gonzaga University.