His wife had painted this just two years ago. She had been planning to have a baby, but, due to her health problems, she decided not to. She had begun to paint this for the baby and, when she knew she wasn't going to have one, instead of stopping, she continued to make it. Oh, what a wonderful surprise it was when it was finished and she had the plaque engraved. Before then, he had no idea who it was for. When she had showed him the painting hung up on the wall with the plaque to the bottom right of it, he had hugged her and kissed her and made her a treat of vanilla ice cream, her favorite, with her favorite spoon too, the one that was shaped like an oar. He had told her that the plaque was in the perfect place because that was the way museums did it and her's, definitely, was worthy of a museum. To the left of the painting was a stone. Not just any stone. It was Cassandra's birth stone, which was an amethyst. It was held by smooth, not too smooth, gray rock, into which was carved a beautiful, curling pattern. Dangling from the bottom of the rock were two wide cloth strings, both of which were straight, that hung down not too short, not too long, just long enough so that it looked nice. He had made it for her on her birthday eight months ago. She had not been there to see it. February 15th. William could say it without having to think of anything. February 15. Her birthday. And death-day. Tears started to appear on William's hazel brown eyes. In not very long, they were running down his face. It was a silent crying, as it almost always was with William. On January first his wife had unexpectedly gone into a coma. Nobody had found out why, and they still hadn't since. She had remained in a coma until February 15th. On that day at 12:00 noon, Cassandra Pamtin had died. William was there, as he was every day since the sad day when Cassandra had gone into the coma. The the funeral had happened two weeks after she died, as the hospital needed some time to inspect the body. For the two weeks, and two weeks after the funeral, William had eaten nothing but the things that Cassandra loved, even, as he swore, if it killed him. He had sent in the request for the birthstone amulet and, though it cost a fortune, bought it. He didn't care what the cost was, as long as it honored Cassandra. He had made another plaque, exactly the same, except the engraved words spelled out: IN MEMORY OF CASSANDRA PAMTIN. After staring at both pieces of art for five minutes longer, William slowly turned around and trudged down the hall toward the stairs that led down to the main floor. He descended the stairs one by one, still remembering all the fun and wonderful memories of Cassy.