Rhoda, loight of my loif, foyre of my loins. My hoagie, my cheesesteak. Rho-da: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of two steps to tap, at two, on the teeth. Rho. Da. She was Rho, plain Rho, in the morning, packing Tastykakes into my lunch pail. She was Rhody in her Iggles jersey. She was Rhodsey at the WaWa. She was Rhoda Ziegler on the dotted line. But in my arms she was always Rhoda.