Today should be my dear friend Henry's birthday. He loved Frida Kahlo and often tried to convince me to appreciate her, as well. He was never successful, but I miss our conversations.
I wish I could give this to him. As a little boy, he never got a birthday party. He wasn't bitter about this, saying, "With all her children, with my day so close to Christmas, Mother did not have time." I knew better than to criticize his mother, whom he loved more than anything, but internally I always cried "bullshit." He had two brothers, not 12. His mother had time. So I pledged to him I would always fuss over his birthday.
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| You can order it here. |
Before his accident, he would thank me and we would hang it on his tree together. After his TBI, he would criticize it -- "Is this supposed to be Frida? Why can no one get her eyebrows right?" -- but he would still thank me.
Happy birthday, Henry. I miss you.
