S-H-M-I-L-Y

My grandparents were married for over half a century, and played their ownspecial game from the time they had met each other. The goal of their gamewas 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 themdiscovered it, it was their turn to hid it once more. They dragged "shmily"with their fingers through the sugar and flour containers to await whoeverwas preparing the next meal. They smeared it in the dew on the windowsoverlooking the patio where my grandma always fed us warm, homade puddingwith blue food coloring.

"Shmily" was written in the steam left on themirror after a hot shower, where it would reappear bath after bath.At one point, my grandmother even unrolled and entire roll of toilet paper toleave "shmily" on the very last sheet.There was no end to the places "shmily" would pop up.

Little noteswith"shmily" scribbled hurriedly were found on dashboards and car seats, ortaped to steering wheels. The notes were stuffed inside shoes and left underpillows. "Shmily" was written in the dust upon the mantel and traced in theashes of the fireplace.

This mysterious word was as much a part of mygrandparents' house as the furniture. It took me a long time before I wasable to fully appreciate my grandparents' game.Skepticism has kept me from believing in true love-one that is pure andenduring.

However, I never doubted my grandparents' relationship. They had love downpat. It was more than their flirtatious little games: it was a way of life.Their relationship was based on a devotion and passionate affection whichnot everyone is lucky to experience.

Grandma and Grandpa held hands every chance they could. They stole kisses asthey bumped into each other in their tiny kitchen. They finished eachother's sentences and shared the daily crossword puzzle and word jumble. Mygrandma whispered to me about how cute my grandpa was, how handsome and oldhe 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 theirblessings: a wonderful family, good fortune, and each other.But there was a dark cloud in my grandparents' life: my grandmother hadbreast 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 yellowroom, 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 mygrandfather's steady hand, they went to church every morning. But mygrandmother grew steadily weaker until, finally, she could not leave thehouse anymore. For a while, Grandpa would go to church alone, praying to Godto 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 ofmy grandmother's funeral bouquet. As the crowd thinned and the last mournersturned to leave , my aunts, uncles, cousins and other family members cameforward and gathered around Grandma one last time.

Grandpa stepped up to mygrandmother'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 knewthat, although I couldn't begin to fathom the depth of their love, I hadbeen 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.