A Kindness of Spanish Oranges

Karin Hedetniemi is a writer and street photographer from Vancouver Island, Canada, inspired by ordinary beauty in quiet places. Her creative nonfiction is published in Prairie Fire, Hinterland, Sunlight Press, Sky Island Journal, Moria, mac(ro)mic, and other literary journals. She won the 2020 nonfiction contest from the Royal City Literary Arts Society. You can find her on Twitter/Instagram @karinhedet or at her website AGoldenHour.com.

My eyes were still adjusting to that first foggy morning when dawn was breaking over the Galician hills. There were dark shadows and unfamiliar forms, the occasional cry of a rooster, a dog barking on some distant farm. I could hear my breath, my boots crunching on rocks, and the approaching clicks and steady rhythm of hiking poles.

“Hola, Buen Camino,” the pilgrims would utter.

“Buen Camino,” we’d return.

The ancient trail pulled us forward through the countryside on rambling inclines and steep downward slopes. We passed barbed wire fences, stacked stone walls, gnarled apple trees, weathered barns. All gradually revealed within an etheric timelessness as if passing through a peasant's waking dream. The whole of the journey was still ahead, but I yearned to suspend time. Paint these bucolic scenes in the deepest part of my memory.

Soon the sun emerged, casting long golden rays down a rural road. Enough light to write. I took out my journal and scribbled notes as we walked. Gary watched me with curiosity, wondering — or perhaps hoping — if he was on the page. But he wasn't, yet. I was still trying to put words to the aftermath. 

Imagine the story of your life just abruptly ended.

There you’ve been, in the middle of the most enjoyable book: absorbed,  anticipating what would naturally unfold next. And then you turned the page with naïve innocence, expecting as always to continue this great story – and it was suddenly just, over. The End. Not another page, not another word.

Death had erased the foreseeable future.

Each day now had a surreal quality of journeying in a foreign land. Not knowing these people, not speaking this language, not able to orient direction by any familiar landmarks. Feeling lost and bewildered. Not recognizing my own life.

Each night, re-reading the half-story, wishing for more. But always waking up inside a blank page.

“Do you need a piece of orange?” Gary asked, holding out a piece. “You mentioned you get low blood sugar.”

I tucked my journal inside my waistband and accepted the wedge. It was sweet and brought me back into my body. I could see now where we were. The pale morning moon was pinned to the sky over a field of corn. A donkey brayed, looking for attention. We stood in a patch of sunlight, sharing the orange until, by unspoken agreement, it seemed time to rejoin the trail.

Gary found an apple on the ground and passed it through the fence to the donkey. I bent down to tighten my laces and picked up a pine cone. Don’t think about the past or the future. Stay in this moment. Look around and breathe. You are here in Spain.

Here in a cornfield, our long shadows touching. 

Here on a pilgrimage, like so many thousands before me. Here, with a companion suffering a similar fate: free-falling into the void of unwritten endings.

***

Sometimes when we were too breathless on the ascents for full conversation, Gary would practice his Spanish vocabulary, and I would recall the matching word in French.

“Perro.” Chien.

“Queso.” Fromage.

“Calabaza.” Hmmm. Je ne sais pas.

"It means pumpkin," Gary offered. I shrugged.

This is how our language study went, cheerfully back and forth, until finally, we crested the mountains. A hand-painted sign pointed to a welcome detour: ancient Galician Celtic ruins nestled among wildflowers. Sleeping under the still, sun-bleached light. We walked the perimeter, admiring the summit view. A drink of water, a handful of nuts, a stretch. And then onward, propelling ourselves into the hottest part of the afternoon. Into all those forward-leaning hours. Through all those leaked confessions.

"Ultreia," the faster pilgrims would utter.

"Et suseia." 

The day filled in with small pleasures that made me forget the weight of my pack. A cool patch of dappled shade, a gurgling stream, pockets of birdsong. At some point, I noticed Gary had moved his wedding band to his other hand. I decided not to say anything. Brushing my own bare hand inside a rosemary bush, I inhaled the scent, then extended my fingertips to Gary. He leaned forward and closed his eyes.

"When I'm back home in my kitchen, I'll remember this moment." 

I carried that pine cone for 38,000 steps, until it fell out of my hand, somewhere in a eucalyptus grove — right after I had suddenly recalled the French word citrouille – right before the breeze picked up, and rustled all the trees alive.

Cover photo by Erwan Hesry on Unsplash