By : Ruth 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 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 glissading 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.
"Ruth," I
answered. "I'm Ruth 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, Mrs. P,"
she called. "We'll have another happy day."
The days and weeks that followed
belong to others: a group of unruly Boy Scouts, PTA meetings, and 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, Mrs. 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 seems 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, and yesterday and the
day before and-oh, go away!"
"Did it hurt? "
"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 Ruth Peterson. I missed your little girl today
and wondered where she was."
"Oh yes, Mrs. Peterson,
please come in" "Wendy talked 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, Mrs.
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 MRS. 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 sand--- who taught me the gift of
love.