We saw Harry in the 1970s in an outdoor arena setting, a
performance venue between Buffalo and Rochester, NY. He was in his beautiful
prime, his skin like golden sand, his humming voice a swoon, a flowing tremor of
coffee and rum,, his hair still black back-lit with lighting and sky, his black
pants crisp, his shirt silken silver. I was there with five Rochester sisters,
freckled and tanned, and when we knocked on his trailer and asked for a photo,
he glided down and stood among them, his arms around them, him golden West
Indian, them Irish tan, all bronze and earthen and night, his teeth glistening, their
lips shy and pink and full.
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