Welcome to everyone that crosses this path.

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 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
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' 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 Sunday. 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.

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