Here is a postcard with a picture of Henry that I used to send out to kids who wrote me letters.
It’s been a year since Henry died.
I think about him every day, miss him every day.
Yesterday, on the way to the post office, I thought: oh, all those thousands of postcards of Henry I sent!
Surely it means that he is somewhere out there still hamming it up—joyful, irrepressible, unsinkable as he always was.
Henry.
Here.

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