Shortly before this tragedy, before our attention was so abruptly drawn to a small town in Connecticut, I had occasion to be speaking with a man about coming to terms with his own constellation of childhood hardships, 'smaller' on scale to be sure, but tragic nonetheless: a young brother's suicide, an uncle's shunning and resulting premature death, a mother's perhaps well-intentioned but projected and scarring mis-parenting and control. We had visited this ground many times before -- but this time there was a difference. As is so often explored in personal work, the concept of writing a letter to an individual, figural to one's emotional development, had occurred to this man; in this case, a communication with his now deceased mother. Freed from the need to actually sending anything, his writing was honest, candid, and direct, citing the struggles and hurts he'd experienced; the presumed psychological impact his childhood was to have on his adult life. What made this exercise unique, in my experience, however, was that he had, in fact, composed two letters: one from his current perspective as an older man looking back; a second, through the eyes of the child, living each day as if it unfolded, different (perhaps) from the one before, without agenda, expectation, judgment, or even context.