A news notice flitted across my screen the other day. Woman killed by cement truck. Not again, I thought. The cement truck body count in Toronto is high and getting higher.
Bad as it is to read of more pedestrian carnage, this time is worse because I know the victim. She was the woman with the loud, high-pitched voice who for years had panhandled at the corner of Dundas and Sherbourne half a block south of here.
We spoke often, though the conversation was always the same. She'd say “Do you have any change?” I'd say “Sorry, no.”
People claim to have warned her that it was dangerous darting out into the road to ask drivers for money.
Her danger increased at some point in the pandemic, when she had a foot amputated and took to getting around in a wheelchair.
People in every state of mental and chemical disarray wander onto Sherbourne street all the time. And use the stopped traffic at intersections at Gerrard and Dundas as their chance to introduce themselves to potential patrons.
Everyone in the ‘hood knew her, but no one’s quite sure of her name. She “succumbed to her injuries” at the scene and was pronounced dead in the street.
That loud, reckless panhandler was someone’s child. And one of God’s children. There’s a piece missing now in the sound scape at the intersection. Someone who was a daily reminder of life’s uneven favour is gone.
I’m sorry she’s dead.
Thanks for reading.
Karen
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