I lie in the dried grass in my front yard, yammering on my cell phone to my sister in L.A. As we talk, she goes outside, sees a sliver, and pops back into her overpriced Sherman Oaks apartment. When she goes back out a little later to check, she reports that her moon is pure-tee GONE. I think it scares her that it disappeared that quickly. It gives me a thrill that we're viewing the same giant thing at the same time from different angles. The blind man and the elephant.

Four people walk by and I hail them, "Hey! Hey, see the eclipse?" They stare at me. "The moon, you see?" I'm pointing, smiling. They continue walking, cautiously glancing at me. "An eclipse," I insist. One of them looks up. "Oh, OK." They keep going. They are Asian, I think they all work at the Chinese restaurant nearby. We live in a safe suburb of upstate South Carolina - this ain't New York, I am a skinny 30-something middle class white woman, they don't have anything to fear from me. Maybe they think I am a lunatic (pun intended) or their culture shrugs off periodic astrological events. Or maybe they are tired, and smell like fried food, and can't be bothered to look up for four seconds from the sidewalk that leads home.