The airport was closed again today. She rang him up and said she wasn’t coming. ‘It’s the weather,’ she told him. ‘It’s unseasonable.’ She went outside through the kitchen door. There were hailstones on the back lawn and they shaded the neighbour’s red roof like a coloured pencil. She took the damp clothes off the washing line and carried them inside. There were times when we worshipped the gods of the weather and read the entrails of birds. I am descended from the women who inhaled the vapours and I, too, wait for a sign.