This is the kind of LOVE
that makes life worth Living
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 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.
Thank you, Grandma and Grandpa, for letting me see.
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Return HOME from SHMILY
