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When we saw the handsome Tommy Jackson doing weather on CNN we squealed because he went to high school in Florida with us. When Siena, Arti, Shana and I followed his laser over the map of the United States, his left-hand on the side of his body snug like California. When Siena mentioned that Tommy Jackson routinely used the girls bathroom afterhours to smoke weed because he claimed that it was cleaner, it smelled fresh of mint breaths, the mirrors misted with our slinky skirts reflections. When we watched Tommy described the El Niño effect like an expert, how the radar map jump roped thunderstorms in Texas, cloudy Washington tarped like a nun, Nebraska, a melon ripped with light. When Arti sighed, we looked at her if she were about to let us in a secret about Tommy, but she shrugged and said, “What?” When we flocked to the TV like moths, because it felt as if Tommy was talking to us, the current in his voice feeding what we needed back when we dreamt of being women someday, what we needed now, tonguing the wounds of being low-waged, unloved. When his palm massaged over the torso of Mississippi, his fingers traced the Tennessee lip, we sighed, slow-mouthed songs, glowing, honey pink. When we waited for climate catastrophes, his explanations screwed to our brains like scriptures. When Shana and I argued if there ever was a tropical storm named Tommy. When a hurricane spiraled toward Louisiana, our home, Tommy pointed to a pinwheel in ocean, sinewed winds, a warning too late. When he smiled and said good night, he looked high on hope, his words fell like snowflakes into the sea gurgling in our mouths, our skin scrubbed with salt, the sun drilling into our skulls, keeping his memories bright.