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What is love?
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A soul mate is someone who
that fit our keys, and keys to fit our
When we feel safe enough to open the
locks, our truest selves step out and we
can be completely and honestly who we
are; we can be loved for who we are and
not for who we're pretending to
Each unveils the best part of the other.
No matter what else goes wrong around
us, with that one person we're safe in
our own paradise.
Our soul mate is someone who shares our
deepest longings, our sense of
When we're two balloons, and together
our direction is up, chances are we've
found the right person.
Our soul mate is the one who makes life
come to life.
My Lisle matches all of these for
There is no fear in love; but perfect
casteth out fear.
If you judge someone, you have no time
Set me as a seal upon thy heart, as a
upon thine arm: for love is strong as
Love is a canvas furnished by Nature and
embroidered by imagination.
If there is anything better than to be
it is loving.
Life has taught us that love does not
in gazing at each other but in looking
outward together in the same
-Antoine de Saint-Exupery
One word frees us of all the weight and
in life. That word is love.
This story was sent to me
A Shmily for
My grandparents were married
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
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.
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