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 the sand.”
That sounds good, I thought, At that time, a sandpiper was glided by. “That’s a joy,” the child said. “It’s a what?”“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, 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，teaches me the true meaning 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.
参考译文
我第一次在家附近的海滩遇见她时，她才6岁，正在用一沙子堆筑一个城堡之类的东西。她抬起头来，眼睛如大海般碧蓝澄澈。
“你好！”她说。我随意地点点头，不想被一个小孩子烦扰。“我在堆建东西。”她说。
“我看到了，堆什么呢？”我心不在焉地问道。
“噢，我不知道，我只是喜欢沙子给我的感觉。”
这听起来不错，我想。一只矶鹞从我们身边掠过，“那是一种快乐。”孩子说。“是什么？”“是快乐，妈妈说矶鹞会给我们带来快乐。”那只鸟落在海滩上。
“再见了，我的快乐，”我喃喃自语，“你好，我的痛苦。”我转身继续漫步，沮丧极了，觉得生活好像完全失去了平衡。
“你叫什么名字？”她追问。“罗伯特，”我答道，“罗伯特.皮特森。”“我叫温迪，今年6岁。”“你好，温迪，”她格格地笑起来“你真有趣，”她说。心管内心沉郁，我还是笑了，继续走着。身后传来她悦耳的笑声，“皮特林先生，你要再来啊，”她喊道，“我们还会度过一个快乐的日子。”
接下来的几个星期，参加家庭教师协会和照顾卧病在床的母亲占据了我所有的时间。一个早晨，我放下手头的事情。“我要去看看矶鹞，”我对自己说。尽管海风冷得刺骨，我还是沿着沙滩漫步，寻求一份宁静。
“你好，彼特森先生，”那个小女孩突然出现在我面前，把我吓了一跳，我几乎把她忘了。“你想跟我一起玩吗？”“你想玩什么？”我带着一丝不悦问道。“我不知道，你说呢？”“看手势猜字谜怎么样？”我略带讽刺地说道。“我不知道那是什么。”她咯咯的笑着说。“那就走走吧，”我看着她，发现她长得很漂亮。“你住在哪里？”我问她。“就在那儿。”她指着一排房子说道。“你在哪里上学？”“我不上学，妈妈说我们在度假。”我们沿着沙滩漫步，这个小女孩一直叽叽喳喳讲个不停，我却想着别的事情。我要回家时，温迪说，今天她过得很开心。我的心情也奇怪地变好了，笑着跟她说，我也一样。
三个星期后，带着无比的恐慌，我再次冲到海滩上，没有心思向温迪打招呼。“如果你不介意的话。”我对紧跟在身后的她说，“我想一个人静一静。”她脸色看起来异常苍白，上气不接下气地问道，“为什么？”我转身喊道，“因为我妈妈去世了！”很快我又想到，“天啦，我为什么要跟这个小女孩说呢？”“噢，”她平静地说，“今天真不幸。”“是的，”我说，“昨天，前天，统统都过去吧！”“你受到伤害了吗？”她问道。“受到什么伤害？”我很生气，便大步走开了。
大约一个多月后，我又一次来到海滩，她去不在。我感到内疚、羞愧有点想念她了。散完步后，我走到那排房子前敲了敲门，一个面容憔悴的女人开了门。
“你好，”我说，“我是罗伯特.皮特森，今天我很想念你的小女儿，不知道她在哪里呢？”“噢，皮特林先生，请进。温迪常提起您。很抱歉，她打扰您了。如果她给您惹麻烦了，请接受我的歉意。”“不，她是个可爱的孩子。”
“皮特森先生，温迪上星期去世了，她得了白血病，可能她没有告诉您吧。”我哑然失措扶住一把椅子简直无法呼吸。“她喜欢这片海滩，所以她要来这儿，我们无法拒绝。到这来以后，她的状况似乎好了很多，她说她每天都很快乐。但最近几周，她的状况急剧恶化...”她的声音颤抖着，“她留了些东西给您......我去找找，您等一下，好吗？”我呆呆地点点头想对这个年轻的妈妈说些什么。她给我一个污损的信封，上面有孩子稚嫩的字迹写着皮特森先生，信封里有一幅画，用蜡笔画着黄色的海滩，蔚蓝的大海，还有一只棕色的鸟儿，下面认真的写着：一只矶鹞会带给你快乐。
泪水模糊了我的双眼，我拥抱着温迪的妈妈，“对不起，对不起，对不起。”我一遍又一遍地说着，我们一起痛哭起来。
我把这幅珍贵的画镶上边，挂在书房里。六个单词分别代表她生命中的每一年--它们向我诉说着和谐、勇气和无私的爱。一个眼睛像大海般深蓝，头发像海滩般金黄的小女孩，送我一份珍贵的礼物，教会了我爱的真谛。生活如些繁杂，每天的忙碌和身心的累累伤痕让我们忽视了那些真正重要的东西。这个星期去给你爱着的人一个拥抱吧！不论怎样，都要抽出时间，停下来去闻闻花香哪怕只有10秒钟的时间。
