The stories of El Camino feature knights and miracles, Moors and battles, Templars and bandits, and pilgrim hospitals and cemeteries. Getting to Santiago has always meant to die and to be reborn, just as in the Game of the Goose, where the space labelled “death” implies only to be sent back a few spaces or a few throws of the dice. On El Camino death lacks mystery but not charm, and acquires meaning only because it is required in order to start anew. Since I started walking I’ve often thought of how it would feel to die, with little success. I imagined that it would be like getting old having forgotten how to be thankful, or like remembering with the rush that erases all memories, or like making love just to remember what it feels like. But it is not like that. And today that the sun rises for the last day on El Camino I realize that I have indeed been sent back a few spaces. Not enough to restart the whole route, but sufficient to arrive in Santiago more than once. Few would understand the need for that, while others would call it a weakness. But that is because they have not seen your morning eyes, because they do not know how far away one must travel to resuscitate, nor that we would name our daughter Rocío, nor that when I wash my face and you hug me from behind the mirror reflects only one image, and it is not yours. Angels do not have mirror images, but they do have arms, skin, hands, and lips. And this is how I arrive in Santiago---touched by an angel.

“y mientras más mortal el tajo es más de vida
va cabalgando sobre una palma escrita
y a la distancia de cien años resuscita.”---Silvio Rodríguez (“El Mayor”)