June 16, Triacastela

At the beginning
of the walk, for
several days, I’d
spot the same cross
parked outside
albergues near
where I was staying.
& then forgot about it.
On the mountain top,
in O’Cebreiro,
it reappeared
(it has wheels)
& all today I’d pass
the man who carries it
on his back,
then he’d pass me,
as the day warmed
& slowly we shed
layers. We’re off the
mountain now. Outside
this albergue’s window,
wet clothes stretch
on the line. I’ve decided
to go to pilgrim’s mass at six;
it’s five thirtyfive
& I need to drop off
my groceries beforehand,
so, while the two
Spanish men seated
beside me play an
elaborate card game
with robots
or maybe it’s wizards,
some activity that
will last hours,
I’m just going to touch
on this topic, a secret
we must all know:
St. James is not really
buried at Santiago
de Compostela. &
yet we go.

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