My grandparents were married for over half a 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 bath after 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 places "shmily" would pop up. Little
notes with "shmily" scribbled hurriedly were found on dashboards and car
seats, or taped to steering wheels. The notes were stuffed inside
shoes and left under pillows. "Shmily" was written in the dust upon
the mantle 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 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 my grandmother's casket and, taking a shaky breath, he 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.
S-h-m-i-l-y: See How Much I Love You.
Thank you, Grandma and Grandpa, for letting me see.