Walking

My Wheels

The last time I went for a walk I came back 20 days later. Nothing compared to my friend José; he came back two years later and got tired just shy of Finisterre. Then he went on—almost literally dragging himself—towards the end of the world. I was there, his witness. True and quite symbolic. José finally looked at the sea and threw his walking stick into the waves. Watched the wood float away like something he wanted to forget. And then he stopped walking.

Suddenly I got that walking feeling myself. Will follow José’s tracks like that other time I arrived dead at Burgo Ranero. (Thanks for the warm fire, José, “compañero”.) No other word I know, hearing it from you, describes friendship best. What will your smile do for me in this my season of cold and rain?