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My grandparents were married for over half a century, and played their own special game from the time they had met eachother. 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 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 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
until 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.
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