My grandparents were married
for over a 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 grandmother
always fed us warm, homemade pudding
with blue food coloring.
"Shmily" was written in the steam 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 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 little flirtatious games;
it was a way of life.
Their relationship was based
on 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 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 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 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, 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.
~ Author Unknown
