Subject: Fwd: How touching.........


 "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 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 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.