Landfill

That sound you heard after 3 p.m. yesterday was the soft rustle of millions of Americans throwing their eclipse glasses in the trash.

For a suddenly dark afternoon, those pieces of paper and plastic were prized possessions. Together we turned our eyes from the sidewalk to the skies. In Oregon, in Nebraska, in South Carolina. In fields, in stadiums, at the office, on the computer. We were one for two minutes, 41 seconds.

Then we discarded what we didn’t need anymore. Those glasses, which a few days before were selling for 17^th century Dutch tulip prices on Amazon, were worthless as suddenly as the birds went quiet in the shadows. The only worth these scientific accessories would have is to people sentimental enough to pack them in a hope chest or practical enough to store them safely, hoping they remembered where they put the glasses in April 2024.

Who would have use for these things now that the moon’s shadow shifted away from the sun into the empty who-cares of space? Leaving the fields with folding chairs, sitting in rural gridlock under unremarkable sunlight, they were just paper and plastic.

But we all looked up if we could and the overwhelming sky was worth the trivial cost.