For about two years I carried a postcard of his picture with me. His serious look reminded me of a serious guy I was enamored with and dated for a bit back in college. But Henry began to make Jerard look like a wimp. Jerard was an unsure writer of some articles and a few poems, had attended prep school and was trying to get settled for his future. He was mostly diligent, a little quirky and he adored me, at least most days. I thought he’d be a good husband, but I kept thinking of Henry, perfect Henry and comparing Jerard to Henry. Henry was a man on a seemingly self-imposed mission, and I liked that and fell in love.

Henry Lee Dumas, my literary love