Pygmalion's Cry

I can’t remember how long I stood there the day we put Amy to rest, staring at the large ashlar bearing the statue of my wife. I had just finished sculpting it four weeks before, not knowing it would soon become 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.

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 was that she died on impact and didn’t suffer. When I viewed the totaled remains of her car and read the coroner‘s report of all the injuries she had sustained, I was glad she had been spared any pain with her instant death.

Again, I looked upon her face perpetuated in stone. I was proud of myself for being able 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 held 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.

Each evening, 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 other's arms. It was a ritual we looked forward to and a wonderful conclusion to artistic liberation.

The day I finished the statue, I had a sense of how Pygmalion must have felt when I looked first to the statue then to the living and breathing Amy. The resemblance captured 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.

Somewhere in the heavens it was written, a Kismet, that Amy and I were meant to spend our lives together. My love for her was immeasurable and she was the mainstay of my life. I think I could have lived solely based on the true love I felt for this woman and with her love fueling me. It wasn’t like I was totally dependent upon her; it was purely a metaphorical condition.

How could I survive now? What meaning to life was left for me? These questions were to be left unanswered as I tried to deal with what I found to be an ultimate loss for me.

I couldn’t function in any capacity. Life had lost its appeal to me. I couldn’t eat; the food had no taste. It was only through the coaxing of my brother Eric that I would eat healthy and substantial meals. That and the threat of speaking to my physician if I didn’t comply resulted with me eating meals prepared by the cook he hired.

I couldn’t sleep; my dreams held memories of Amy, ending with an ominous black cloud enveloping her and whisking her away. I couldn’t work; the concentration needed was not there.

I couldn’t socialize; I hated the couples she and I knew, jealous that they still had each other. More so, I hated the phony attempts of the people around me to act like nothing had happened. For them, life would continue. For me, the days would be devoid of my wife. I withdrew from any form of socialization, preferring to sit in a darkened room listening to music that I once used to listen to with Amy.

A year and six months after Amy’s senseless death, I finally put aside my mourning. First, I released the hired cook, not wanting anyone around to distract or interrupt me. I could no longer stand another day without Amy in my life, and began the new project that had taken possession of me. I was so glad I had ordered that second, larger block of marble after the completion of Amy's statue. Until today, it had sat in my studio beneath a tarp, mostly forgotten. I hadn't even really thought about what I would do with it. All that had changed as I drug out the sketches of Amy from the drawer of my desk. I calculated where the exact cuts would be made on the marble with chalk marks before actually plying chisel and mallet to the stone.

I worked in great earnest, determined to finish this new statue the day before the second anniversary of Amy's ascension to Heaven. I worked relentlessly, most times forgetting to stop to eat and, when I did remember, it was usually fast food order I had delivered. I could almost hear Amy's voice, chastising me on my decision of eating less than nutritious foods. She had always been health conscious and was a wonderful cook. But, time was essence for me and I had even taken to sleeping on a cot in my studio when sleep would overcome me. I would sit on the edge of the cot then stretch out fully, falling into a troubled sleep. Haunted by those dreams I had come to hate.

Eric came to see why I hadn’t been answering the phone when it came time for his once a month calls to check on me. The first thing he noticed when he showed up at my door unannounced, was how much weight I had lost; my clothing hanging on me much like cast-off clothes on a scarecrow. He was furious that I had let the cook go. He also commented on how haggard I was looking, no longer the robust man I had been under my precious Amy's care. It took some convincing on my part to reassure him that I would start taking better care of myself to avoid Eric having my physician hospitalize me. He even stayed a couple of weeks to make sure I did. This put a serious hampering for completing my project on time. I literally had to restrain myself from throwing him out. When I felt like I was losing control and coming close to ushering him out the door, I reminded myself that this was my brother and he had nothing but my best interest at heart.

To save myself further problems from my well meaning brother, I had a phone line installed in the studio. I wouldn’t miss anymore of his calls.

Then the day came when I had finished my sculpture, a whole day early, and I called a moving company to transfer the piece out into the garden; my exhaustion prevented me from doing the job myself.

The fifth of May arrived in splendor. The early morning sun began to dry the dew from the lush grass and nodding roses. Birds thrilled out their various songs, oblivious what the day held for me. I pulled off the tarp from my latest creation. I had been able to accurately replicate the statue of Amy with one difference; at her feet was a statue of me kneeling before her. The blank eyes of my effigy looking up to her with all the love I had ever held for my darling wife showing on the pale marble face.

I stood there for several long moments before moving under the elms where we once made love. I laid down to face the new creation of love and waited for the thirty sleeping pills I had taken to return me to Amy’s arms. Although I was faced with the fact that the new statue was not the original, I had done my best to keep my promise to her. My only regret was there would be no children or grandchildren to bequeath the legacy of our love.

A stiff breeze stirred the air. White rose petals floated to settle on me and my depiction of eternal lovers.