She was my dad's sister. Exactly two weeks prior, my grandfather passed away. And fourteen short days later, a 27-year-old Rhonda, not feeling well, laid down to take a nap, when a cluster of white blood cells hit her heart. She never woke up. She left a husband, two young sons, and a family that loved her more than their words and any amount of tears could ever express.
And I have her middle name. I hold it close to my heart. I never met my Aunt Rhonda, but I've heard story after story about her. The photos that were captured are held dear to those who own them.
I have been told that I resemble her, in both looks and personality. My dad always saw a piece of his sister in his daughter, and I think that's something special.
The saying holds true: Only the good die young. Rhonda had a sweet, sweet laughter. She found humor in a lot of things, great and small. She was very smart, and she was a dedicated wife, mother, and employee. I wish I had my own stories of her to tell, but I take pride in possibly having some of her traits.
No comments:
Post a Comment