At school, we were told about Lot’s family. The angels said to them, ‘Go, but don’t look back. We’ll do a Bad Thing to these people. We’ll rescue you, but you mustn’t see what happens.’ And then Lot’s family started running away, but Lot’s wife didn’t believe the angels and looked back. And she saw the terrible Bad Thing the angels were doing to the people, and she turned into a pillar of salt. Lot’s wife turned into a pillar because she couldn’t bear what she saw. The teacher said the transformation was magic performed by angels, but I know now that you can freeze into a pillar without magic. It’s enough that you see something you can’t bear.

There are things that don’t go away with time. They don’t dim, soften or fade into memories. They stay as hard and as big as ever. They stand like a pillar in a person’s stomach and chest and boom there. They may be forgotten, but when they come back to your mind, they are always now, and always equally big, as if they were happening right now.

The angels do Bad Things. Sometimes they give advance warning, sometimes they don’t.

That day, Dad’s mind received such a bad image that it will never be deleted. That image got in through Dad’s eyes to his brain and destroyed a spot there. Every time something reminds him of that morning, the morning is here again. I didn’t get the image because Dad pushed me away just in time. Dad said sorry for hurting my leg and bottom and elbow. Bruises heal, but images that reach the brain don’t. Dad got a lump of salt inside him, and broke.

I never saw Mum again.

A week after Mum’s death, I was allowed to go and see the garden with Auntie Annu and a policeman. There was a hole in the porch. Mum’s garden spade had been taken away. There was a large stain on the ground, a bit like a snow angel, and a line in the soil traced by heels. It was Mum’s place: the last trace of Mum, like the print of a wet bottom on a sauna bench before it evaporates.

‘Well, then, how about…?’ the policeman said, drawing me away. He was large and sweaty, and seemed uncomfortable.

There was no ice left. The garden looked as it did before. The ice had gone through the porch and Mum, then melted away.

Inside, in the kitchen, there were more police officers. No one said anything. None of them wanted me to ask anything.

Auntie Annu held my hand. She was carrying a bag in the other hand, with clothes for Dad and me in it. She squeezed my hand with her own, which was roughened by wool and water, and said, ‘We’ll be off, then.’