A Shmily for You
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
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
grandparent's 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 grandparent's
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 grandparent's 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 it's unmatched beauty.
S-H-M-I-L-Y
See How Much I Love You.
Thank you, Grandma and Grandpa,
for letting me see.
This mysterious word
was as much a part of my grandparent's house
as the furniture.
AUTHOR UNKNOWN
