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 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 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 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 Sunday 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.�