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' 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.
"When God measures a man, he puts the tape around the heart!"
Delma
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