Member-only story
Toronto is a city of neighbourhoods. Mine is called The Junction. Old housing stock and storefronts have been gentrifying for the past ten years. It started just around the time I moved in. Now there’s lots of young couples pushing strollers, Asian fusion restaurants, indie brewers.
I was on a Zoom call, planning a trip, when I heard the commotion drift through open windows on the other side of the house. Ambulances do pass by on Annette Street, but they are normally headed elsewhere. They don’t stop right here, wailing on and on, on this quiet street, at a little after 8:00 pm on a warm September weeknight.
It wasn’t until the next morning, as I was making coffee, that I switched on the radio and learned what happened. A woman was killed, a pedestrian, just down the street from my house. A guy was injured and in hospital. It happened on the corner of Annette and Pacific.
Two cars collided and one careened onto the sidewalk, and into the two people passing on foot. The drivers stayed. Bystanders performed CPR. Everyone did what they could. But she died.
In the afternoon her name was online: Julia Cleveland. She was a jazz musician, and a composer. She lived in the neighbourhood with her partner. She was 46 years old. Her family offered comments: she was gifted, beloved. They are devastated. Later, her picture showed up online. She was pretty and happy.
