A locked red tin box.

The small black figure disappeared behind the cars, not once looking back to her. He would drive back to Peterborough, out of her life.

As usual, she had her camera with her and something made her take a picture of him. She wanted to record how he looked, walking away from her. She needed to hang on to him until the very last moment. A picture. Her darling, the man she loved with passion, devotion, with her whole heart. The man who loved her 'with my whole soul'...Such love could not die!

Coppelia's sister had driven nearly 100 miles to be with her after he left that day. She was in the car park waiting, and on seeing him leave, found Copplelia completely broken down, sobbing uncontrollably, still on the bench.

Grief...

They had lunch at a pub near Coppelia's home, a pub where, months later, she would take a part-time job. A job that would be one of the many stepping stones she placed to carry her across that sea of grief, a dangerous sea, always calling her into its depths.

But for now, she had no idea that this safe, quiet, familiar pub, would again provide for her a place of refuge. For now, being held, being listened to, knowing she was loved by the person next to her, was just what she needed, and talking with her sister helped her see how and why things had happened as they had. She also saw how this may not be the end, after all.

This small comfort of her sister's presence meant more to her than she could then express. After taking Coppelia home her sister drove the 100 miles back to her home in Suffolk. This offering of love and solidarity when she needed it the most, helped bring hope and reason to her despair, and she always remembered it.

As for life in those days after, it can only be described as numb, wearying and full of tears. Tears cried, or tears waiting to be cried.

Raging at God...

A prayer meeting in Cambridge. A church barbecue. A church service. A family outing.
Chores. Work. People. Things. Waking up, going to bed. Who was doing all these things?
Was it her? She was only watching herself do them. The real Coppelia was outside of life, somewhere black, haunting, empty. Empty, empty.

She wanted to cling to everything they had done, to all they had meant to one another.
She needed something tangible, real, to reassure her that something so wonderful might continue, somehow.
She needed the memories to stay alive.
So she bought herself a locking box to keep them in.
The tickets, papers, letters, poems, the photographs.
Touching them, seeing them, somehow made her feel she was still connected with him.
'Look- you've done all this together, how can it just come to a stop? '

Whether or not she could ever bear to look through them again, she wanted to know
they were all together, safe, secure, that should she need them, they were waiting for her.
A red tin box, locked.

That's all she had now.
She cried and cried and raged at God.