You, we, all of us,tend to take trust for granted. That when you tell someone good night, you’ll see them in the morning. That when you start on a run, you’ll make it home safely. That when you play “timber,” you don’t have to turn around to know the person behind you will catch you when you fall. That when you share a secret, it will be kept.
I could go on and on, but quite frankly, it’s dinnertime and I”m hungry. But I did want to mention briefly the kind of trust that I and all other writers must establish with every question we ask, with every answer we write down, with every formation of words we make into the sentences which become a story.
My friend Yolanda is fiercely private. But when I asked her if I could write about her brother Mike, who lost his leg to nectotizing fasciitis last April, and whom she decided should walk a half marathon with her and their sister Liz in January — on Yolanda’s 50th birthday — she said yes. Mike said yes. Their sister Liz said yes.
It’s a tremendous responsibility, an even greater privilege to tell someone’s story, especially one that involves anguish as well as beauty, hope as well as darkness.
So to the Dimas siblings, and to everyone else who has said yes to me, and trusted me because I made them a promise I crossed my heart to keep, The Grateful Runner says thank you.