The Sandpiper . . . to bring you joy! She was six years old when I first met her on the beach near where I live. I drive to this beach, a distance of three or four miles, whenever the world begins to close in on me. She was building a sand castle or something and looked up, her eyes as blue as the sea. Hello, she said. I answered with a nod, not really in the mood to bother with a small child. I am building, she said. I see that. What is it? I asked, not really caring. Oh, I don’t know, I just like the feel of sand. That sounds good, I thought, and slipped off my shoes. A sandpiper glided by. That’s a joy, the child said. It’s a what? It’s a joy. My mama says sandpipers come to bring us joy. The bird went gliding down the beach. Good-bye joy, I muttered to myself, hello pain, and turned to walk on. I was depressed; my life seemed completely out of balance. What’s your name? She wouldn’t give up. Robert, I answered. I’m Robert Peterson. Mine’s Wendy... I’m six. Hi, Wendy. She giggled. You’re funny, she said. In spite of my gloom, I laughed too and walked on. Her musical giggle followed me. Come again, Mr. P, she called. We’ll have another happy day. After a few days of a group of unruly Boy Scouts, PTA meetings, and an ailing mother. The sun was shining one morning as I took my hands out of the dishwater. I need a sandpiper, I said to myself, gathering up my coat. The ever-changing balm of the seashore awaited me. The breeze was chilly but I strode along, trying to recapture the serenity I needed. Hello, Mr. P, she said. Do you want to play? What did you have in mind? I asked, with a twinge of annoyance. I don’t know, you say. How about charades? I asked sarcastically. The tinkling laughter burst forth again. I don’t know what that is. Then let’s just walk. Looking at her, I noticed the delicate fairness of her face. Where do you live? I asked. Over there. She pointed toward a row of summer cottages. Strange, I thought, in winter. Where do you go to school? I don’t go to school. Mommy says we’re on vacation. She chattered little girl talk as we strolled up the beach, but my mind was on other things. When I left for home, Wendy said it had been a happy day. Feeling surprisingly better, I smiled at her and agreed. Three weeks later, I rushed to my beach in a state of near panic. I was in no mood to even greet Wendy. I thought I saw her mother on the porch and felt like demanding she keep her child at home. Look, if you don’t mind, I said crossly when Wendy caught up with me, I’d rather be alone today. She seemed unusually, pale and out of breath. Why? she asked. I turned to her and shouted, Because my mother died! and thought, My God, why was I saying this to a little child? Oh, she said quietly, then this is a bad day. Yes, .I said, and yesterday and the day before and - oh, go away! Did it hurt? she inquired. Did what hurt? I was exasperated with her and with myself. When she died? she asked. Of course it hurt! I snapped, misunderstanding, wrapped up in myself. I strode off. A month or so after that, when I next went to the beach, she wasn’t there. Feeling guilty, ashamed and admitting to myself I missed her, I went up to the cottage after my walk and knocked at the door. A drawn looking young woman with honey-coloured hair opened the door. HelIo, I said, I’m Robert Peterson. I missed your little girl today and wondered where she was. Oh yes, Mr. Peterson, please come in. Wendy spoke of you so much. I’m afraid I allowed her to bother you. If she was a nuisance, please accept my apologies. Not at all - she’s a delightful child. I said, suddenly realizing that I meant what I had just said. Wendy died last week, Mr. Peterson. She had leukemia. Maybe she didn’t tell you. Struck dumb, I groped for a chair. I had to catch my breath. She loved this beach so when she asked to come, we couldn’t say no. She seemed so much better here and had a lot of what she called happy days. But the last few weeks, she declined rapidly... Her voice faltered, She left something for you ... if only I can find it. Could you wait a moment while I look?’ I nodded stupidly, my mind racing for something to say to this lovely young woman. She handed me a smeared envelope with MR. P printed in bold childish letters. Inside was a drawing in bright crayon hues - a yellow beach, a blue sea, and a brown bird. Underneath was carefully printed: A SANDPIPER TO BRING YOU JOY. Tears welled up in my eyes and a heart that had almost forgotten to love opened wide. I took Wendy’s mother in my arms. I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I muttered over and over, and we wept together. The precious little picture is framed now and hangs in my study. Six words - one for each year of her life - that speak to me of harmony, courage, and understanding love. A gift from a child with sea blue eyes and hair the colour of sand - who taught me the gift of love. Written by Robert Peterson
Posted on: Tue, 28 Jan 2014 01:02:21 +0000
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