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
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 your true love.