LatinosUSA

They loved the way he played the piano. The way he wore his hair. The way he smiled and said thank you. The way he sat. The way he turned his head and smiled. The music working its way from his soul to his shoulders and from there to his arms, hands and fingers –fingers and thumbs striking keys, the way flint strikes fire from stone. The way scouts rub sticks, he rubbed his fingers. And they loved the way he rubbed his hands. The way he dressed, his jacket sparkling and his eyes. They loved his cape and the way his features gathered at the center of his face. Lawrence Welk had a face like that. They came from the same war-torn part of the world –a place no one wanted no one wanted to be in, no one wanted to think about. They loved the sound of his voice –the cut of his cape. And his name: Liberace. They didn’t care whose bed he left his slippers under. They didn’t know if he was persecuted for it. The thought never entered their minds, and if it did, his music dispelled it. They didn’t know how he died, when he died, or even if he died. They’d rather imagine he lives on –on YouTube. Posting on Instagram, though there are no recent pictures of him, or of those who loved to watch and listen while he played.