A true story.

Date:   4/2/2006 8:37:14 AM ( 18 y ago)

A Sandpiper To Bring You Joy

By Robert Peterson, (A True Story)

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 sandcastle 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'm building," she said.

"I see that. What is it?" I asked, not 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."

The days and weeks that followed belonged to others: a group of unruly
Boy Scouts, PTA meetings, 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. I had
forgotten the child and was startled when she appeared.

"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, with myself.

"When she died?"

"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-colored hair opened the door.

"Hello," 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 it. "Where is she?"

"Wendy died last week, Mr. Peterson. She had leukemia. Maybe she didn't
tell you."

Struck dumb, I groped for a chair. My breath caught.

"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, anything, 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
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, undemanding love. A gift from a child with sea-blue eyes and hair
the color of sand who taught me the gift of love.


 

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