“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. “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 is truly 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.
我第一次在家附近的海灘遇見她時，她才6歲，正在用沙子堆築一個城堡之類的東西。她抬起頭來，眼睛如大海般碧藍澄澈。