In memory of Henry

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.

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.