Everyone called her Aunt Izora, though she wasn’t kin to half of them, and she wasn’t as old as such a moniker might imply. But there was something about her so calm and steady, so aloof but warm, that she seemed to hold the wisdom of Methuselah, a Biblical dignity, and they all could see it in the way the blue of her eyes shifted just like the blue of the sky, the blue of some foreign ocean, the Aegean, that wine-dark sea. But this was Texas, and this was Saturday, and a storm was coming, and the day she had planned for herself, a day of sitting quietly by the pasture pond with nothing to do but imagine the clouds into rabbits or kings, had dissolved into thunder, an electricity of danger. She liked the way the wind whipped the hem of her dress and pulled at the strictness of her hair. Windblown. To be windblown, disheveled and breathless. To race against the rain, the soft drops that would grow more and more vehement, to race against the rain, and by losing, win.