In Loving Memory of Henry
My big, gassy tank of a boy.
Henry was everything soft and everything strong. He was a contradiction in the most endearing way—built like a freight train but with the heart of something gentle and tender. When he ran, he ran—no hesitation, no brakes—barreling into life (and sometimes directly into me) with all the force of joy itself. And when he rested, which was often, he became a pile of warmth and trust, all long limbs and snuggles, his breathing slowing beside mine.
He had the loudest, wettest blinks I’ve ever heard in my life. It was like he blinked with his whole face—like even that simple motion was something worth committing to completely. And his commitment to food? Unwavering. The sound of a bag crinkle, a fridge door opening, or the mere whisper of the word “treat” would bring him charging from wherever he was, eyes shining like he’d been waiting his whole life for that exact moment.
But more than anything, Henry loved his mom. And I loved him more than words know how to hold. He was the shadow at my side, the weight at my feet, the head nudged under my hand at the end of the day. He made every room feel fuller. He made me laugh with his weird, wonderful noises. He made me feel safe just by being close.
There’s a Henry-shaped space in my world now, and nothing will ever quite fill it. I miss his sighs. I miss his stink. I miss his presence like missing a heartbeat.
Run free, my sweet boy. Wherever you are, I hope there are wide open fields, endless snacks, and someone to lean into—though no one will ever be your mom like I was.
Thank you for loving me so completely.
You were one of a kind.
You were mine.