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 aboutcharades？”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 cottages.“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 were 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.“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 all just go away！”“Did it hurt？”she inquired.“Did what hurt？”I was exasperated with her，with 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，went up to the cottage after my walk and knocked on the door.A drawn looking woman opened the door.
“Hello，”I said.“I’m Robert Peterson.I missed your little girl today andwondered 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.“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 of 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.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.Life is so complicated，the hustle and bustle of everyday traumas can make us lose focus about what istruly important.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.