On the eighth of April, a solar eclipse shed fleeting darkness on the countryside and my father sold the family car to a man who looked like Grandpa. I could tell because when my mother and I peeked through the living room shades, which were tinted yellowy-orange by street lights, I saw that the man had a round belly and balding white hair and a big nose, which concentrated the dwindling sun into a dash of highlight at the tip. And when the stranger was gone, the car had been sold, and my dad came in to sit, his body was slumped and his kind eyes distant and sad. The last of the light warmed my skin when I stepped back outside, a memory briefly beautiful, emergence of the crescent sun from beneath the gathering clouds.