Ronda and me on my wedding day in 2006

I always speculated there was perhaps a 25% chance of me writing this. I was always prepared to go first because men don’t live as long. 47 years means life is equally cruel and transient.

You were named after a Beach Boys song. Dad bought the European version “Help Me Ronda” in France instead of “Help Me Rhonda” in the United States. You got annoyed telling people “Ronda with no H”, a spelling they thought was unusual at first, but people got used to it. Just like people thought how sweet you were was unusual at first, but people got used to it. It breaks a plethora of hearts that I just used the word “were”.

Our favorite thing to do together was watching movies. I figured we’d be laughing at Austin Powers for another 30 years. I’ll always think of your impression of Chris Farley (“Tommy want wingy!”) when I eat wings now.

We could always count on Bruce Willis to kill all the bad guys, and we could always count on Jim Carrey to make us laugh. We could sometimes count on Chipper Jones to get the big hit, and we could usually count on Aaron Rodgers to make the big throw. None of those immensely talented people can give me one more day with you. That Capraesque reunion will have to wait.

It will be a terrible birthday without your phone call, your voice, your wisdom, and especially your laugh I could identify out of a thousand giggles. Next year will be a little easier. Remember that Hawks game in 2005 when we got on The Kiss Cam and the usher had handed me a sign that said “ ⬅️ Sister”?

You once told me the number one thing you miss with your gluten free diet is nachos. Everything tastes better in heaven, so you can eat whatever you want now. Even movie theater nachos taste great up there, despite evidence to the contrary down here. Dad’s father has twelve grandchildren, and he’s been waiting since 1950 to meet you. He won’t be disappointed like we are down here without you.

I’d rather have you here, but God decided this world wasn’t good enough for you. He’s always right. You’re now in a place devoid of awful things like war, famine, disease, Congress, the Dallas Cowboys, and the Kardashians.

I asked you in 1995 why you called me “Beavis”, and you said “because he has blond hair and he’s stupid.” I’ll never be able to watch something silly without thinking of you ever again. Being your brother was one of the greatest honors of my life.

Thank you for singing at my wedding, and your song rivaled Lisa with its beauty. You and Lisa were peas in a pod, and anything else would have been a dealbreaker in a wife. I wish I had known you and I had not quite 16 years remaining after the wedding. I’d trade all the memories of that wonderful spring day for just one more hug from you.

I’ve written enough, and you’ve read the whole thing over my shoulder anyway. 45 years of amazing is better than no sister at all. I’m glad you lived long enough to become an incredible aunt to Kevin for eight years. I love you and I miss you like I’ve been missing sleep.

I’m nobody’s brother anymore.

Until we meet again, save me a seat up there, back row, under the projector like we always did.

I’ll have the nacos, ot dogs, Woppers candy, and wash it all down with a Cerry Coke. In heaven, I won’t gain any weigt.

All with no H, just like Ronda.

In your onor,
David