“Do you trust me?”


Still, twenty years later, my favorite Disney movie. Any wonder why?




“Do you trust me?… Do you trust me?,” K asked me earnestly.


“Y-yes,” I said, fighting back anxiety.


This was yesterday. K, Z and I played hooky from church and took a leisurely drive down Route 9, stopping for drinks at a Wawa, and then on farther south to a pretty county park. K showed Z how to skip rocks on a lake while I snapped pictures.


We walked around a bit. Well, Zoe ran on the green grass, pigeon-toed like me. I walked and continued to take pictures.


We came to a curb, and K helped Zoe practice stepping down. Then I reached out to him to help me, since sometimes, a simple, one foot high curb can be an impasse. He stepped back from my grab. Uh oh.


“You can do this. Come on, step down.”


I looked at the curb. “Um, no, no, I cannot. Come here.” I took another swipe at his arm, but he remained out of reach. “K! I need help!”


He had his determined face on. Dang it, why’d he have to get all Anne Sullivan on me? We were having a nice time, enjoying the weather…


“Alisha… Do you trust me?”, his question jolted me out of my grumbly thoughts. “Do you trust me?,” he repeated.


I trust him; I don’t trust myself. More specifically, my body. CIPD makes a liar out of my limbs. Burning, soreness, weakness, and the worse, by far, is the balance deficit. I cannot close my eyes and stand in place. I cannot stand on one foot. If I’m standing for a long period, I’ll sometimes start to sway.


K knows it, but he doesn’t live it. I feel irritated that he can dole out such lessons on coordination when he is actually something of an athlete.


“You don’t understand!,” I screeched that out. My voice, choked with fear and anger, went all high pitched. Augh. Even I don’t like hearing that.


Undaunted, K put his hand out and asked again for my trust in him. His hand was just far enough away that I’d have to step forward (and down) in order to reach it. I stepped off the curb shakily, taking his hand. No falls, no scrapes or trips.


“Do it again,” he said, and reluctantly, I acquiesced. We repeated this three times. He then led me to close my eyes, while standing on that curb. The whole time he was there, coaching and coaxing. Afterwards, walking back to the car, I began to cry. I didn’t feel accomplished, just scared, anxious and pathetic. He hugged me. “You have to remember to breathe.”


Back home, I thought about that curb, K and me. Isn’t that how marriage is? Going against fears of being hurt, of failing. Sometimes, in order to go forward, and to relearn to trust my self, I have to close my eyes and trust him.


And remember to breathe.



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