A four-year-old boy was fatally struck by a car just outside my house last week. He ran out onto the street against a red light while his mother and him were collecting his older sister from school on Friday afternoon. Anne heard the screeching tyres and somebody scream. An off-duty fire fighter managed to resuscitate the boy, but he died early Saturday morning at Melbourne's Royal Children's Hospital.
The child's name was Bram. At his funeral, his mother—who immigrated here from Germany—spoke about Bram's bubbly personality and about his love of trains. Because she has three other children, she bravely continued her life as per usual. She even took her surviving children to the school's fête (=annual carnival fundraiser) two days after the funeral.
Bram was one of those kids who was always fearlessly running ahead of his family, and his mother struggled to keep him near her. Just like Gaston was, at that age. Just like Rémi can be when he has his over-the-top tantrums.
I've been thinking about all the near misses Gaston and Rémi have had over the years. Of all the times one of the boys ran out onto a street when there just happened to be no cars speeding by. I try to push such things to the back of my mind, but an incident like this brings it right back to the front, and I've found myself imagining what could have happened in this or that situation.
