A SANDPIPER TO BRING YOU JOY...
By 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 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,
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.
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 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 undemanding love.
A gift from
a child
with sea-blue
eyes and hair the color of sand --
who taught
me
the gift
of love.
to good midis on my web site any more. But because of new laws all of us on the inter net are in danger of lawsuits if we use them. So you will have to enjoy my web site without music. for more information click here: http://free-the-midi.com/main.htm
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