Rhoda and Rhonda

After dark, I was standing in the post office lobby, surrounded by silence and hundreds of post office boxes. The lobby stays open for people to access their boxes and the mail drop, but it’s very eerie, and I’m alone.

I pretend I’m bold as I quickly throw stamps on my letters so I can get back to my car. I’m sure the next person to enter the lobby will be an axe-wielding murderer.

Hearing the door open, I look up, prepared to fight for my life. Through the door walks a tiny old woman, laughing as she reads a sign on the door. She shuffles but has a pep in her step, and she’s adorned in jeans, tennies, a striped t-shirt, and a quilted sweatshirt jacket with silver snaps—the kind my grandma used to wear.

I smile at her. As she talks to herself, she smiles back, and her words are now directed at me.

Over the next couple of minutes, this tiny woman continues to talk, and I listen. Since no one is trying to murder me, I slow down and enjoy her presence.

She speaks quickly and intimately, revealing her age of 87, and that her husband left her for another woman. She shares that she grew up in Ohio but has been in Arizona for 30 years. Lastly, she says, “I have four kids but only raised three.” Her firstborn daughter died at four days old.

“What’s your daughter’s name?” I ask.

“Rhonda.”

Baby Rhonda.

The tiny old woman’s name is Rhoda. And her grief almost killed her.

Rhoda and Rhonda.

After a couple more minutes, Rhoda stops mid-sentence and says, “You’re so beautiful. I just love you! Where have you been?” And she gives me a hug. She’s barely 5 feet and I swallow her in my hug, but I don’t care. My heart is full, grateful for the encounter with this tiny stranger.

Rhoda and Rhonda are the beautiful ones.