I read a story once about a girl who had a lion for a best friend. The story was filled with the most magical of prose and when I read it, it felt like maybe this story was about me, and I found myself savoring every word. I wrote to Justine and told her so. I told her that I think we might have met in San Francisco, but that memory was somewhat fuzzy because the whole internet was there and we were having drinks. She was kind and said likewise, and thank you.
Justine just got re-diagnosed with cancer, and it has made me sad. My heart goes out to her, and my middle finger goes out to cancer. I found myself sifting through some recent photos, and found one of a lion. He was sleeping, soaking in the sun. He looked at me as if to say, “Hello, don’t you see me lying in the sun, belly up? I could really use a belly rub.” And I raised my camera to my face and snapped his picture. “Sorry,” I whispered, “this is close as we can get.”
I look at this photo and I think of Justine. “Fuck cancer,” I think. The lion looks back. “Fuck cancer,” he says.