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 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 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 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 Sunday 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.