That was a poem I wrote for 11th grade English class, in 1968, the fall of my junior year, only eighteen months removed from the unnerving tragedy. As I look back on it all, I can’t say the years have made me any wiser. I cry as I read this, amazed at the insight of a hurt young boy prematurely thrust into manhood, but gratified at the apparent swiftness of my recovering. I can see that I was at least making some headway toward dealing with things that even now, a lifetime later, I still don’t fully understand and about which on reflection it seems like it took so much longer before I was on the mend.