Cecil County Public Schools UCSCA UCSCA
UCSCA UCSCA Lit of the Nation
UCSCA Lit of the Nation
Ramble of Doom
Clio Domagala

There is a soft sort of sorrow over everything today, emphasized only by the tombstones in the graveyard in which we sat, to ponder anything and everything that may have come out to taunt us. It was dark outside and I kept expecting the sky to open up at any moment and send us running to protect our notebooks from the raindrops that would as soon play pied piper with our jottings as caress our faces. We slipped in, last over the bridge and last into the cemetery, and took a spot nearby under a tree. The breeze was nice, if nothing else.

I picked the spot for the tree. Despite my distaste for the outdoors, I was rather drawn to trees, even as a child. I felt safest the higher I went. This tree was more horizontal than vertical and may offer some harbor for our poor unprotected etchings. We sat and spread our things out and I took a few photos, just marveling at the rows of perfect tombstones, all in good condition and standing straight, polished and legible. I wondered aloud and we laughed at whether it was acceptable to use one as a chair. Instead, I climbed the tree I had picked and opened the notebook to write.

I couldn't find anything to say, at first. I was terribly uninspired to say anything, however, there were things bothering me, so from the turmoil could be found a few good things, creativity if it be a sole survivor. Last time I climbed a tree and just sat, it was the last time I said goodbye to my old apartment, and it was the gigantic old willow that was planted there between the water tower and dumpsters. I loved that tree, spent most of my time in it, ironically this being the year of the cicada and the tree being where I first witnessed their cousins the locust. I was blank when I sat in that tree, too. It was just a place to sit and exist without thinking too much about anything or instead, thinking about everything to the fullest.

Last time I had been in a graveyard, we were smuggling in a friend, who had taken a bus 900 miles to come and see us. He was sixteen and we fourteen, during the very beginning of summer, when it was still cool outside. We rode our bikes to the station and met him, walked home and stopped in the graveyard. I rebandaged a gash on my leg and they shared a tender few moments of adolescent hormone-swapping on a freshly visited grave. I wandered to let them have their time and found and old woman. We talked long into the afternoon about her husband, of whom she was visiting. It was surprising how peaceful she was.

The campus has been gloomy since my return, an unfortunate thing, indeed, as my memories of it had been fond. But the tree simply invoked the memories of a dismal week in the studio, working to death with only frustration and disgust as reward. We eventually began making mischief, if only to be given something amusing to partake in, the most common being our fights with the literary students. The funny thing is, I befriended one, not knowing quite who she was, and later, after all was said and done, I have now taken her place.

It's truly funny, I began thinking, how much I have changed. I will be masquerading soon as someone she has; I am now in her domain, typing away and with nothing more to do. Comical, how much I seem to be following her, when we've barely spoken in forever. I descended, taking a few moments to play with a caterpillar at the base of the tree. It was a slow day with a slate colored sky, with nothing new and just suppositions and memories. I cannot believe myself uninspired to say a word, and yet, it seems only that I have found my train of thought. Boarding without a ticket is my only problem remaining.