WB, Came across this story and thought you might enjoy it...
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. |
