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This Mother's Day will come, and after my kids give Loren their home made cards, and after I have some coffee and a half dozen morning radical orthodoxy cigarettes, I will hike up Bernal Mountain to visit radical orthodoxy my radical orthodoxy a-mom. Bernal Mountain isn't much of a mountain, just an undeveloped promontory above my neighborhood, bristling with microwave antennas, laced with trails and dog runs. There are a couple of rock croppings that jut out toward the City skyline, and there is where I will sit. From these rocks I spread my mother's ashes, June 18, 1995. I don't have much to say to her. The words have all been spewed out of me, during visits to the beach in the dead of night, with letters asking, "Why?" and ionger entreaties,' which I offered up to her memory in a blazing Bic sacrifice, hoping the smoke might catch her attention. When that didn't seem to work, I'd yell at the surf.
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