Passage Of Change

• Celina Laing-morales, Grade 11
• Short Story
• 2015

The winter sunlight filters in through the shutters, warming my face. The power button on my laptop pulsing on and off, waxing and waning like the tide. The silence of the room is broken only by the thrumming of my finger on the desk in front of me. Had I made the right choice? What if I regretted it? The excessive amount of tabs open in the browser in front of me are indicative of my anxiety. A notification appears at the top of my screen and I lean forward clicking, waiting for the email of confirmation to load. I skim read it for the more important information ‘…one ticket to France…27th of January…thank you for travelling with Finnair.’ I can feel the presence of my hiking equipment in the corner of the room without looking at it. It’s done
***
The muscles in my legs tense with each step I take up the mountain. Although I attempt to avoid the small mounds of snow that liter the trail to O’Cebreiro, I find that much like a small child, I step in each one and subsequently my feet are soaking wet. I groan inwardly.
This journey had begun to reveal the realities of my world, the way the seeming necessities of my typical life had lost their purpose. A pack on my back, an extra pair of clothes, some bread, an apple, a bottle of water and a destination. That was all I needed though even the destination mattered little. The municipal albergue of O’Cebreiro holds approximately 100 pilgrims and I welcome the sight, for I can feel the swelling of blisters on my feet. The yearning for a hot shower and a bed also contribute to my joy at having arrived.
***
I can see the city of Santiago below and I pause for a moment, lump in throat. I’d read that the arrival was emotional however this was painful. To my right I see a family pausing taking in the impending conclusion to their journey and one of their teenage daughters erupts into a fit of sobs. I watch as her father attempts to console her, tear in eye. “Buen Camino” I call to them, the traditional greeting along ‘The Way of St James’ and I receive a chorus of replies. Even the bubbly toddler wiping his face on his mother leg shrieks “A mino!” before erupting into a fit of. I smile and begin the trek down the hill, my last descent…
As I walk I wonder how I’ll cope, what will I do? I find that I don’t want to go home, even though I must. I find that this journey had given my life clear purpose, to reach Santiago. Despite this clear goal though I also find that I’d never expected to get here, the notion had seemed as realistic as finding the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. I walk onwards contemplating my dilemma until I arrive at the Cathedral.