A Weekend in Clauses

Sunday Notes from Site Twelve

1Friday evening, I claimed the campsite’s only flat rock as my writing desk. My cousin Nikhil wanted our weekend to include a long hike, an early breakfast, and a careful inspection of every trail sign. I wanted an empty schedule. Before we unpacked the car, I had already written “do nothing” across Saturday’s page. Nikhil leaned over my notebook and asked whether doing nothing required special equipment.

2Our tent stood between two pines. Nikhil and I spread our sleeping bags inside. The uneven ground made my pencil roll toward his pillow whenever I put it down. I shifted my notebook onto my knees, but the words came slowly. At home I had imagined filling pages with brilliant observations. Here I could describe only the same crooked root in three different ways.

3On Saturday morning, Nikhil unfolded the trail map beside our breakfast bowls. His finger traced a route toward a lookout, then paused at a shorter loop. He offered the shorter route without asking me to defend my empty schedule. I agreed to walk as far as the first junction. My notebook stayed in my jacket pocket, where its stiff corner pressed against my wrist.

4At the junction, we stopped beside a fallen trunk. Although I had agreed to walk only that far, I asked to continue to the lookout. Nikhil folded the map into a narrow rectangle. A loose strap tapped against his water bottle as we started up the next stretch.

5By Sunday morning, the notebook held a pressed leaf, a sketch of the lookout, and a list of sounds I could not identify. The page marked “do nothing” was crowded with arrows and additions. I had not followed Nikhil’s full schedule, and he had not followed mine. While we packed the tent, we discussed another weekend, but this time neither of us started with a list. I left the last page blank for now.