“Shmily”

SHMILY

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 whomever 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 enough 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 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’ lives: 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.