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 glided¹ 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 gliding² down the beach.

“Good-bye joy,” I muttered to myself, “hello pain,” and turned to walk on. I was depressed³; 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 giggled⁵. “You’re funny,” she said. In spite of my gloom I laughed too and walked on. Her musical giggle⁴ 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 Scouts⁶, PTA meetings, and an ailing⁷ mother.

The sun was shining one morning as I took my hands out of the dishwater. “I need a sandpiper,” I said to myself, gathering⁸ up my coat.

The ever-changing balm of the seashore awaited me. The breeze was chilly⁹, but I strode along, trying to recapture the serenity¹⁰ 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 annoyance¹¹.

“I don’t know, you say.”

“How about charades¹²?” I asked sarcastically¹³.

The tinkling¹⁴ laughter burst forth¹⁵ 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 pointed¹⁶ 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 chattered¹⁷ 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 exasperated¹⁸ 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 drawn¹⁹ 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 spoke²⁰ 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 delightful²¹ 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 faltered²².

“She left something for you ... if only I could find it. Could you wait a moment while I look?”

I nodded stupidly, my mind racing²³ for something, to say to this lovely young woman. She handed me a smeared²⁴ envelope, with “MR. P” printed in bold childish letters. Inside was a drawing in bright crayon hues²⁵ — a yellow beach, a blue sea, and a brown bird. Underneath²⁶ 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.