In Austin, everything seems sweet. An old cowboy eating brisket offers me his lap. A mom in the grocery store calls me honey. I crank my neck to look up at the Capitol’s dome. How tall is the goddess perched atop? Taller than anyone.

Years later I search the historical record. Some called her old lady, some called her sweetheart. No woman staked a claim on her rough face. She was painted by a man called Cyclone Jack. He stood on her head. He swung from her star. Then lightning struck. Her arms cracked. Legend says she toppled in a high wind & hung precariously by one rusty bolt, angry as hail on a copper roof. Her nostrils full of bees.

My first storm barely scared the birds. The windshield cracked thin as a scar. Never mind, I felt my heart washed clean. A sweet man held my hand while our sweet tea wept. We made room for each ambulance passing by. Then at night came an earworm I couldn’t shake, an image of no woman’s face: That’s right, you’re not from Texas. Texas wants you anyway.