My grandparents were married for over half century
and played their own special game from the time they
had met each other. The goal of their game was to
write the word "shmily" in a surprise place for the other
to find. They took turns leaving "shmily"around the
house, and as soon as one of them discovered it, it
was their turn to hide it once more.
They dragged "shmily" with their fingers through the
sugar and flour containers to await whoever was
preparing the next meal. They smeared it in the dew on
the windows overlooking the patio where my grandma
always fed us warm, homemade pudding with blue food
coloring. "Shmily" was written in the steam left on the
mirror after a hot shower, where it would reappear after
the bath.
At one point, my grandmother even unrolled an entire
roll of toilet paper to leave "shmily" on the very last
sheet. There was no end to the paces"shmily" would pop
up. Little notes with "shmily" scribbled on them were
taped to steering wheels.
The notes were stuffed inside shoes and left under pillows.
"Shmily" was written in the dust upon the mantel and
traced in the ashes of the fireplace. This mysterious word
was as much a part of my grandparents' house as the
furniture. It took me a long time before I was able to fully appreciate my grandparents' game.
Skepticism has kept me from believing in true love-one that is pure and enduring. However, I never doubted my
grandparents' relationship. They had love down pat. It was
more than their flirtatious little games; it was a way of life.
Their relationship was based on a devotion and passionate
affection which not everyone is lucky enough to experience.
Grandma and Grandpa held hands every chance they could.
They stole kisses as they bumped into each other in their
tiny kitchen. They finished each other's sentences and
shared the daily crossword puzzle and word jumble.
My grandma whispered to me about how cute my grandpa
was, how handsome and old he had grown to be. She
claimed that she really knew "how to pick 'em." Before
every meal they bowed their heads and gave thanks,
marveling at their blessings: a wonderful family, good
fortune, and each other.
But there was a dark cloud in my grandparents' life: my
grandmother had breast cancer. The disease had first
appeared ten years earlier. As always, Grandpa was with
her every step of the way. He comforted her in their yellow
room, painted that way so that she could always be
surrounded by sunshine, even when she was too sick to
go outside. Now the cancer was again attacking her body.
With the help of a cane and my grandfather's steady hand,
they went to church every morning. But my grandmother
grew steadily weaker until, finally, she could not leave the
house anymore. For a while, Grandpa would go to church
alone, praying to God to watch over his wife. Then one
day, what we all dreaded finally happened. Grandma was
gone. "Shmily." It was scrawled in yellow on the pink
ribbons of my grandmother's funeral bouquet.
As the crowd thinned and the last mourners turned to
leave, my aunts, uncles, cousins and other family
members came forward and gathered around Grandma
one last time. Grandpa stepped up to Grandmother's
casket and, taking a shaky breath, began to sing to her.
Through his tears and grief, the song came, a deep and
throaty lullaby. Shaking with my own sorrow, I will never
forget that moment. For I knew that although I couldn't
begin to fathom the depth of their love, I had been
privileged to witness its unmatched beauty.
I bet you're wondering what "shmily" means, aren't you?
S-ee H-ow M-uch I L-ove Y-ou ="SHMILY"
