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 sand castle or something and
looked up, her eyes 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 the sand." That sounds good, I
thought, and slipped off my shoes. A sandpiper glided by.
"That's a joy," the child said.
"It's
what?" I asked, uncaring.
"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,... and I'm six."
"Hi,
Wendy." I offered.
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 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
never-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 has 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 greet even Wendy. I thought I saw her mother on the porch and felt
like demanding why she keeps 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 on 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 that 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, 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 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 inner 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.