As Jason was cleaning out the hall closet he recognized her scarf there on the floor in the back corner. He didn’t think there were any of her things left. With a muffled sob he picked it up, intending to throw it in the “to donate” box, but he found himself holding it to his face breathing in the faint smells of honeysuckle and of her that still clung to the crimson fabric. He knew at once that he must preserve this last indelible piece of her. Jason tiptoed into his studio so that his new bride wouldn’t hear and placed the scarf in a plastic bag so as to contain the wonderful scent. He looked around for a place to hide it away from prying eyes. His studio was filled with her. The sadness that was always simmering under the surface came bubbling up and he allowed himself to cry just a little for his lost love. His gaze flitted from portrait to portrait and even to his clumsy attempt to carve her beauty in alabaster and then he saw it. He affixed her scarf to the back of the last photograph he taken of her, he had had it blown up and printed on canvas, it was perfect as was she.