Later, I wrote letters to him. This habit started in the night before he got buried. I couldn't sleep and so I stepped into a dialogue with my Rob. And I kept writing all my thoughts. On the funeral I put the letter, covered with tears in our "treasure box," where all the other treasures that we collected were secretly hidden. Thereafter, his grave at Mt. Auburn cemetery in Cambridge became a kind of second home, at least in my thoughts, because sometimes I don't have the chance to come around. However, Rob is alive in my thoughts and close at any time I open the box.