The following picks are for your deep thinking part
of the mind. Read, think and kindle your gray matter.
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.
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.
