by Hope Jordan Public domain/Joegrimes Somewhere Tom Petty’s American Girl still plays on endless loop and me and Kim walk in adolescent lockstep, tug our terrycloth shorts to cover our butts. Love’s Baby Soft and Coppertone coconut, lemon scent of Sun-In on our hair. We still count the cars with men who whistle as we walk over the bridge. Somewhere there’s still sand in a transistor radio and boys who want to talk to us, inflated inner tubes tied to the dock. Back at Grandma