I like sunny days best. It means no one died that day. I know the truth now: my dad explained it.

He lay on the grass and held me close to his chest as I cried. I still smelled the church incense on his jacket as he pointed to the lonely cloud.

“What do you see?” he asked.

That was the game. Sometimes it’s an elephant, a bear or a tree, but it was always something.

“It looks like Mamma,” I said. There was a bobble nose, a gap where her eye would be, and shaggy hair like she used to have.

I felt my dad’s chest rise up and down as he held me tighter.

“That’s because it is,” he said. “Clouds are ghosts flying up to heaven.”

We watched the cloud until it disappeared. I thought about elephants and bears and wondered whether trees have ghosts when they die too.

Then we went home. My dad fixed me mamma’s favorite smoothie and I drank it in my room until all the people left. Later, I found my dad installed in the living room, like he was part of the couch.

“Dad, there’s a fog tonight.” I realised what it meant. I took his hand, and we walked out into the field. “Mamma came back down to give us a hug.”

We both heard it. Dad squeezed my hand. I shivered as we heard her whisper.

“My boys.”