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I can't remember how long I stood there that day we put Amy to rest, staring at the large ashlar that bore the statue of my wife. I had just finished sculpting it four weeks before, not knowing that it would soon be a part of her tombstone. On the ashlar base, her epitaph was chiseled, surrounded by a garland of acanthus leaves.

Amy Lynn Johnson
May 12, 1977-May 5, 2002

Beloved wife, lover and companion,
a precious rose in Our Lord's Garden.

The chiseled inscription was not my work, only the words were mine. I was too over-wrought with her death to take that task. I then closed my eyes, tipped my head back before reopening them to see her smiling stone face through a watery veil of tears.

I was proud of my work to capture her image in the rich, white marble imported from Naples where I had learned my craft as a sculptor. Amy was so patient as she posed for me in our garden. She was dressed in a simple, white sun dress and a white rose cradled in her hands like a precious jewel. She withstood the hours spent relatively motionless and the occasional prick of a new rose for every session. Never once did she complain, even when we would take short breathers to talk or have a small repast of cheeses, crackers and fruit, washed down with iced tea. Amy was a dedicated model and I believed it was due to her extreme love for me.

After draping the work in progress with a tarp, we would make love right there, under the shade of the Dutch elms, amidst the colorful blooms of various roses, their attar hung heavy in the spring air. Our hearts drummed in arpeggio when we would reach our peaks, wrapped in each others arms. It was a ritual we looked forward to and a wonderful conclusion to artistic liberation.

The day I finished the statue, I felt like Pygmalion when I looked first to the statue then to the live and breathing Amy. The resemblance I had been able to capture of her was uncanny. Amy begged me to never sell it. She adduced that it should remain in the garden where it had been born, so our children and grandchildren would always be reminded of the beauty true love bestowed to them. I made a solemn oath to her that I would. But, some how, it seemed more befitting as her headstone.

Now, my life seemed meaningless without my beloved Amy in it. Her life snuffed out like a candle when a drunk driver ran the stop light, hitting her broadside. The only blessing came that she died on impact and didn't suffer. When I viewed the totaled remains of her car and the coroner's report

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