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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 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 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
blessed 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 an old man 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.
Thank you, Grandma and Grandpa, for letting me see. "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. 