“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:
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