Reconciliation “Each person has a responsibility to reconcile with the past and move on” Desmond Tutu Every notion of peace begins with this. The ground zero of you. Where is that place? Sometimes buried deep, sometimes an open wound on your landscape. Unexamined, it fuels wars, strangles compassion, kills off children. How do they heal? Sit and knit their grief. A “sweater” of bone and sinew, of scar tissue unbearable bits of truth, tattered personal effects of apartheid-era youth. A mother’s nightmares of her son’s bashed face, for seven years he wore an Elastoplast where his nose used to be. A kind white doctor has fabricated a prosthetic, but her son has now run out of skin glue. Other less lucky black youth drugged in their cars, sent careening into trees. The remains buried by security police. The truth fits like skin on a sunburned body. Much later it slackens with wear, and lets out the rot of loss allowing the salt breeze of tears. How does a nation heal? They choose a path of understanding not vengeance, Humanity towards others, ubuntu Amnesty for truth. Testimony fills the village halls with so much gun powder and they each have a match with the strength not to light it. They come together to examine each other’s sweaters. To witness the ugly collection of blood and bone, all permeable and alive. They learn to nurture their own new growth with soft wool and lanolin. Pull it gently across tender, aching skin.