I lost a child once, a little boy called Daniel. He was three. My back was turned, the door was opened, he went to find his mother.
It ended okay. Because this is Tasmania, even though he turned right when we all went left, he was picked up by a family friend while wandering on the highway, while we set our searches in the other direction. It could have been much, much worse.
I was lucky. I know that, although I don’t think I’ve ever really forgiven myself for that day. I ran into two of his brothers the other day at the supermarket, and they tell me he’s an apprentice painter now, all grown up. For me though there’ll always be a small Daniel wandering on the highway of my memory.
I’m thinking of this at the moment because all of a sudden it’s very fresh. I’m reading a…
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