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The
Sandpiper
Robert
Peterson
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'm 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".
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."
I struggled through 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 another 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
gosh, 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, please go
away!"
"Did it hurt?" she inquired.
"Did what hurt?" I was exasperated with her and 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 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 how 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 undemanding love. A gift from a child with
sea blue eyes and hair the color of sand -- who taught me the gift of
love.
Contributed
by
Dorian Bell
Defining
Moments
Archives
Copyright
© 2006, Jace Carlton. All International Rights Reserved.
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