Remember, before Tina moved to Oklahoma, every weekend
slumber party we’d spend watching Grease on repeat

in our nightgowns, arms extended, hands clasped together as we
pretended to be Marty & Sonny at the national dance-off.

How Tina, even though she was brunette, always got to be Sandy
because she hit puberty first and all the boys knew her name.

Prophetic, to say the least (the very least) as Tina is the only one
without dead parents, whose Instagram account

rivals a Rydell High cheerleader’s scrapbook. I can’t say whether
your Frenchy or my Rizzo is too on the nose or perhaps

my days practicing Cool Rider on the ladder in my dad’s warehouse
means I’m best left to languish in sequels anyway.

I still picture us spinning in circles, anticipating adolescence,
not knowing our 30s would be so violent, so soon.

How in our 20s we’d almost die chasing after the high of when Marty
hit on Vince Fontaine saying Maraschino, you know, like in cherry.