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The
Sandpiper
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
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,"
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
next
few
days
consisted
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
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
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
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
uttered
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.
NOTE:
This
is
a
true
story
sent
out
by
Robert
Peterson.
It
happened
over
20
years
ago
and
the
incident
changed
his
life
forever.
It
serves
as
a
reminder
to
all
of
us
that
we
need
to
take
time
to
enjoy
living
and
life
and
each
other.
The
price
of
hating
other
human
beings
is
loving
oneself
less.
Life
is
so
complicated,
the
hustle
and
bustle
of
everyday
traumas
can
make
us
lose
focus
about
what
is
truly
important
or
what
is
only
a
momentary
setback
or
crisis.
This
week,
be
sure
to
give
your
loved
ones
an
extra
hug,
and
by
all
means,
take
a
moment...
even
if
it
is
only
ten
seconds,
to
stop
and
smell
the
roses.
This
comes
from
someone's
heart,
and
is
read by
many
and
now
I
share
it
with
you...
May
God
Bless
everyone
who
receives
this!
There
are
NO
coincidences!
Everything
that
happens
to
us
happens
for
a
reason.
Never
brush
aside
anyone
as
insignificant.
Who
knows
what
they
can
teach
us?
I
wish
for
you,
a
sandpiper.
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