She was 6 years old when I first met her on the beach near where I love. I drive to this beach, a distance of 3 or 4 miles, whenever the world begins to close in on me.
She was building a sandcastle or something and looked up. "Hello," she said. I asnwered 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 joy. My mummy says sandpipers come to bring us joy."
The bird went gliding down the beach. "Goodbye 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 6."
"Hi," 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."
Several weeks later, I returned to the beach. As I strode along the seashore, trying to recapture the serenity I needed, the child 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 knowt what that is."
"Where do you live?" I asked.
"Over there." She pointed toward a row of cottages.
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.
3 weeks later, I went to the beach again. 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 and 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 opened the door. I introduced myself.
"Oh yes, Mrs 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, Mrs Peterson. She had leukimia. Maybe she didn't tell you."
Struck dumb, I groped for a chair.
"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 her.
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 and we wept together.
The precious little picture is framed now and hangs in my study.
6 words ---- one for each year of her life --- that speak to me of harmony, courage, undemanding love.
A gift from a child who taught me the gift of love.
------ by Ruth Peterson
No comments:
Post a Comment