Sandpipers to Bring Us Joy
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 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?” I asked.
“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, Windy.” 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 I meant what I had just said. “Where is she?”
“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 could 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.
我第一次和她在那個海灘上相遇時，她整六歲。這個海灘離我的住處約有三、四英里。每當我心情壓抑，感到煩惱時，就驅車上那兒去。當時她正在用沙子堆積一個城堡似的東西。看到我來，她抬起頭來望著我，那雙眼睛像大海般深邃、湛藍。
“您好!”她說。我點了點頭作為回答，說實在的，我沒有心思跟一個小女孩費神。“我在蓋房子呢!”她又說。
“我看見了。這蓋的是什么房子呢?”我心不在焉地問道。
“噢，我不知道，我就是喜歡摸沙子的感覺。”
這倒有意思，我邊想邊脫掉鞋子。驀地，一只磯鷂從一旁滑翔而過。孩子見了說：“那是歡樂。”
“是什么?”
“是歡樂，磯鷂能給人們帶來歡樂，媽媽說的。” 那只磯鷂順著海濱飛走了。
“再見了，快樂，”我自言自語道，“痛苦來臨了。”并轉身走開。我很沮喪，因為我現在的生活一團糟。
“您叫什么名字啊?”她還不罷休。
“羅伯特，”我回答，“我叫羅伯特·彼得森。”
“我叫溫迪，”──聽上去卻像Windy(風的意思)。“我六歲了。”
“你好，大風，”我叫道。“您真逗!”她咯咯地笑了。盡管心緒不佳，我也不由得笑了起來，一邊往前走著。她那清脆悅耳的笑聲依然追隨著我。
“您下次再來，彼先生。咱們再快樂地玩一天!”她喊著。
那以后的好幾個星期，我忙得不可開交，沒有一點閑暇：負責一群調皮搗蛋的童子軍，參加家長教師聯誼會;還要照顧生病的母親。
一個陽光明媚的上午，我洗完碗碟，心想：“我需要一只磯鷂。”于是穿上外套向海灘走去。
海岸不斷變化的芳香依然在等著我。微風有點刺骨，但是我依然大步走著，我多么渴望能重新處于安靜寧謐之中啊!我早已忘掉了那個孩子，所以當她出現在我面前時，不免吃了一驚。
“您好，彼先生!”她說。“你想玩嗎?”
“你想玩什么?”帶著一絲厭煩，我反問她。
“我不知道，您說吧。”
“猜字謎怎么樣?”我挖苦地問。
“我不知道那是什么，”她說著，又發出一陣銀鈴般的笑聲。
“那么，咱們一塊兒走走吧。”我望著她，看到了嬌嫩而皙白的臉色。“你住在哪兒?”我問她。
“那邊!”她用小手指著遠處一排夏季避暑的小別墅。我感到納悶。現在是冬天啊。
“你在哪兒上學呢?”
“我不上學，媽媽說我們在度假。”我們漫步走上海灘，她一路上嘰嘰喳喳地說著小姑娘們的話。 可是，我卻心事重重。當我要回家時，溫迪說這是快樂的一天。奇怪的是，我的心情也感到舒坦多了。于是，我同意的報以一笑。
三星期后的一天，我神思恍惚，幾乎是瘋狂似地沖向我的海灘。我根本不想理睬溫迪。
