Forty dinners in 40 days and on the table with every one of them sits the bottle of red wine. Local wine. The Spanish are proud of their wine. They don't ask if you want it. It's there on the table with every meal, like a spoon and a fork. There is rarely butter or olive oil for the bread unless you ask, but always there is wine. No one gets drunk -- at least not among the more mature group we've found. There are no scenes. Just a bottle of wine and pilgrims to share it and a feeling of connection to the people and the food as we slowly nurse our cups, our aching backs and burning feet.
Red Wine
When I drink red wine
With dinner
All the lights sparkle brighter
And candles jump up
And dance on the table
I listen more intently
To the pilgrim beside me
Whose name
I've already forgotten
As he shares his story
As wine rolls down my throat
A fine fine Rioja,
I feel warm and light
Instead of the heavy cold
And something bordering
On mystical
The wine pooling in my gut
I want to curl and bend
Around my lover
Like a cat
And mew into his ear our many blessings
When my cup is refilled
And filled again
I am grateful for the diversion
From staring at my navel
And seeing only lint
I am lighter
With each topped half-glass
My aches absorbed in Crystal
Like blood in my veins
And thus I am sanctified
Not even a bottle, no
Just a glass or two
And all my sins are forgiven
If sins they ever were
And reduced instead to mere moments in a life
All of me is present
Not shy but solid and weighty
Sure of all the angels
I've met along the way
And sure there are no angels at all
But the bottle is one more body
Emptying on this road
Singular and disappearing
Down my thirsty throat
Earning it's wings
~ Cheryl Murfin, on the Camino de Santiago
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