Her vision blurred, darkened and cleared. She stood on the edge, watching as the small white coffin was lowered gently into the ground. Sweet smelling earth was scattered over the top, covering the surface slowly at first, then in great clumps as shovels of dirt covered up the tiny body that nestled within. A three-foot box, a foot for every year. She was aware of people moving around her, an endless sea of black. Then she felt strong arms wrap around her, pulling her back from the brink. "Come inside Connie, your not completely well yet." The man's voice was warm, his eyes filled with concern for his wife. "I'm fine Michael." It wasn't a lie, not completely. She wasn't hysterical over the loss of her daughter, as most people had expected her to be. After all, this was Connie. Warm, funny, caring Connie, who wore her heart on her sleeve for all to see. "Besides," she added, turning towards the man and resting her head on his chest, "it's not that cold." It was true, for November the weather was unusually mild. The few remaining autumn leaves were trodden into a sea of mud, but the sky was a pale blue hue. The watery sunlight illuminated everything. Almost everything. The narrow gaping hole where their daughter now lay was cold, dark and lifeless. Michael gently pulled Connie away from the grave, towards the car and they drove off, shattering the silence of the graveyard.
Inside the car remained quiet, Connie and Michael both lost in their own thoughts as they made their way along the narrow country lanes. They sat as close together as possible; each afraid of loosing the only person they had left. Connie's head remained on Michael's chest; the steady beat of his heart reassuring her. Michael continued to hold Connie close to him, having already come close to loosing her just a few short weeks ago. He wished he could know what was going on behind those deep hazel eyes, wanting to be able to take away all the pain she was going through. Instead he just kept her in his arms, being careful not to hurt her any more than she already had been. As the car stopped, the reluctantly got out and walked into where they were celebrating their daughter's short life.
"Such a terrible accident." "And so young." "Connie must be heartbroken.""She still isn't herself, poor girl." She let the voices wash over her as she passed them, oblivious to their pitying looks. Michael stood talking to her boss quietly. "I'm really worried about her, she isn't eating, she barely sleeps and she wont talk to me."
"I know Michael, just give her time. Do you want me to try talking to her?"
"Please, she doesn't listen to me, just stares into space. It's as though I'm not there." The other man slowly walked over to where Connie was standing. "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine."
"Connie, you take as much time as you need before you come back to work." Connie's eyes focused on the man, her mouth was set in a grim line. "I'm coming back next week."
"I know you want to, but if it's too soon…" Connie cut him of sharply "This is my decision and I don't need you making it for me."
"Have it your way Connie, just don't bury yourself in work. You need to live as well."
Eleven years later Connie Beauchamp sat up in bed with a start, trying to remember what had woken her so suddenly. The accident, the funeral, the dream had seemed so real. Slowly she pulled back the duvet and headed into the bathroom where she stared at her reflection in the mirror. She looked old and tired she thought, the last few months clearly having taken their toll on her. Her eyes were now dull, and had dark circles under them, although they were usually covered by make-up. Splashing cold water on her face in an attempt to wake up, she thought back to what her old consultant had said to her at the wake. She whispered the words softly to herself, "Have it your way Connie, just don't bury yourself in work. You need to live as well". As she slowly got ready for work, dressing in her favourite navy power suit, she couldn't help but think that he was right. She had devoted her life to her work, and now she had nothing else left.