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 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 waspreparing 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 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." 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.
Shmily - By: Laura Jeanne Allen the granddaughter of Alice and Anthony McAndrews of Rochester, NY
See How
Much I Love You
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