I headed down the hill toward Ground Zero. I crossed Church and leaned my forehead against the metal fencing overlooking the huge pit ... There was a cross, made of two girders from the site. Holy ground, land laded with hate, yet not heavy with it, not overwhelmingly charged with evil, there was something else, not in the tribal Christian sense of the Cross but still ... there was something that felt like the opposite of fear, that felt like the Pentecostal winds that had swept Manhattan on the first anniversary of 9/11, a scouring wind that carried forgiveness. Could that be possible? I looked into my heart, deep into my memories of that day. No, it was not possible. I couldn’t.