A Touching Story
佚名 / Anonymous
She was six years old when I first met her on the beach near where I lived. 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 caring. “Oh， I don’t know， I just like the feel of the sand.” That sounds good， I thought. A sandpiper glided by. “That’s a joy，” the child said. “It’s what？” “It’s a joy. My mama says sandpipers come to bring us joy.” The bird glided 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 days and weeks that followed belonged to others： 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. 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 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 oh 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.
