JODIE FOSTER

At three, she played the Coppertone girl.

At twelve, a prostitute.

Boys and men planned murders in her honour,

planned to murder her in her honour.

She came out without using the word lesbian.

Now, she’s by the pool with her wife and sons.

She banged the door down for decades.

You can demand something and leave once it’s yours.

Once, I stood next to a campfire and spoke to a woman about New Orleans.

She took me by the hand and brought me into the woods. Just before she traced her

tongue across my mouth, she said, I have something to tell you - I live in a lizard colony.

And, to be honest, I thought of Jodie.

I thought of her pantsuit made of shadows.

I thought of the word lambs in her mouth.

I have been seeing my therapist for ten years. I’ve seen her cry a few times. Once was

when I told her I came to accept that I might never see my brother again. Another time, it

was a Wednesday and there was a sun shower. Yesterday, with tears in her eyes, she

said, The only certainty we have is that one day, we are born, and then one day, we will

die. Everything in between is up to us. This is how she told me she was reducing her

working days to Tuesdays and Wednesdays.

I thought of Jodie then, too.

I thought of the asteroid named after her.

I thought of how there’s no right way to live a life.

Onto the next thing, and the thing after that,

and the thing that follows that.