THE JOURNEY TO YELLOWSTONE

“This is where I want to be,” my mother said to me, arms outstretched. “Promise me that you’ll take me here again.”

I turned to her and deadpanned in my usual fashion, “That better be a long time from now, because it’s going to be one expensive fucking trip.” I was unaware at that time that my mother had less than two years to live.

I had nagged her to hike a short trail after accidentally bear-spraying her in the parking lot while trying to give her a quick demonstration. Of course, she positioned herself too closely to the asphalt that I had sprayed—that’s my mother; always too engrossed in a task momentarily, with attention quickly fleeting. It back-splashed and she grabbed me