Henry was a man of many talents, none of which were particularly useful, but all of which were uniquely his. He had a knack for showing up late to every event with a story so absurd it somehow justified his tardiness. “I was stuck behind a parade of ducks crossing the street,” he once said, as though we were supposed to accept that as a valid excuse for being two hours late to Christmas dinner. And, honestly, we did—because it was Henry.
But now, Henry is no longer with us. He has shuffled off this mortal coil, bought the farm, kicked the bucket, and, if I know Henry, probably tried to argue with Saint Peter at the Pearly Gates about why he shouldn’t have to wait in line.
It’s strange to think of a world without him, and I imagine some of you are wondering how we’ll get along without his very unique contributions to society—like his annual tradition of attempting to deep fry a turkey while simultaneously insisting he knew what he was doing. Spoiler: he never did.
Henry would hate for us to sit here and be solemn. In fact, if he were here, he’d probably be standing in the back, interrupting me right about now to remind everyone of the time I accidentally texted him instead of my boss. He never let me live that one down.
Henry wasn’t just funny, though. He had a way of making people feel special. Not in the “Hallmark-card” kind of way, but in the “here’s a wildly inappropriate joke tailored specifically for you” kind of way. He was a walking, talking inside joke, and if you knew him, you knew you were part of something special.
He was also deeply unpredictable. I once invited him to a formal dinner, and he showed up wearing a tuxedo T-shirt and carrying a watermelon. Why? “For comedic effect,” he said, as though that explained everything. The watermelon remained uneaten, by the way.
But Henry’s greatest skill was his ability to turn even the most mundane moments into legendary stories. Like the time he got into a heated debate with a parking meter that “stole his quarter” or the day he tried to teach his cat how to fetch, which ended with him climbing a tree to retrieve his shoe.
What will I remember most about Henry? Probably the sound of his laugh—a laugh so loud and unrestrained that it could startle nearby wildlife. I’ll remember his uncanny ability to ruin every group photo by making a ridiculous face, and the way he could make everyone in a room feel like they were in on some cosmic joke.
Henry is gone now, and while I’m tempted to say “good riddance,” I can already hear his voice, shouting from wherever he is: “Make sure they know I was the fun one!”
He would want us to laugh today, to tell stories about him that make no sense but somehow capture exactly who he was. So, here’s to Henry—our friend, our comedian, our legendary bringer of chaos. May his memory live on in every poorly timed joke and every overly ambitious turkey fryer.
Goodbye, my friend. You’ll always be the punchline we never saw coming.
