Norma's attributes seem to vary according to what she's sitting on.  During her waking hours that's generally a soft, butt-engulfing leather sofa that encourages her to slump.  On this Saturday afternoon, though, she's disregarded my caution about trying to walk unaided and found her way into the dining room alone while I'm still tapping away at the keyboard. When I join her, she is sitting in a wooden, stiff-backed chair, clearly ready to receive gentlemen callers. 

I prepare myself a light lunch of orange juice and vodka and sit down across from her.  The sun is at her back and outlines her in gold. Her pose is erect, strong, confident—a Norma original.  I fantasize that she's just returned from a shopping trip with Audrey Hepburn. Naturally, I must take a picture, and I do—several as it turns out—as she grins mischievously and strikes suitably haughty poses.

Like the publicist she used to be, she insists on photo approval, and when she picks one she likes, I text it to her younger sister, Frankie, in Dublin, Ohio.  Within minutes, Frankie FaceTimes her and begins ribbing her about the “beauty queen” caption I've attached. After that, it's sisterly catching-up for the next 10 minutes—except that Frankie does all the talking while Norma nods and makes approving noises.  Life couldn't be better, I think.

Once their call is over, I can see Norma's starting to tire, so I take her back to the sofa and turn on the Country Classics channel. She catches the melody of Eddy Raven's “I've Got Mexico” and is soon humming along with him.  Then she leans over and picks up from the coffee table a copy of “Bluegrass Unlimited” magazine and begins paging through it. This is a big deal. It's been eons since she's tried to read anything more demanding than a text message.  Her focus just isn't there. But now her head moves left to right as if she's taking it all in, page after page.  

While I”m ingesting this wonder, Roger Miller's “Engine, Engine No. 9” comes on and reminds me anew of Miller's sorcery with rhymes.  I began rhapsodizing about his genius to Norma and lamenting the fact that I never got to meet him. This brings to mind my favorite of his songs, the majestic “River in the Rain.””  So I grab an iPad and play it for Norma.

The song's wholeness and beauty are emotionally overwhelming, like a glimpse into the white light of eternity. And Miller's voice, flinty with passion and certain as a papal decree, totally immerses us in the crushing and cleansing power of the mighty Mississippi.   Words, for Miller, are not just accented syllables, they're saturated with music. “But sometimes in a time of trouble when you're out of hand/and your muddy bubbles roll across my floor/Carryin' away the things I treasure, hell there ain't no way to measure/why I love you more than I did the day before.” Was there ever an image more tactile and musically expressed than “muddy bubbles”?

The convergence of Norma reading and Miller singing floods me with more joy than I can hold, and I start crying—not just misting up but dabbing away rivulets of tears. I know the sensation won't last, but that's OK.  In this one perfect sliver of time, Miller's “muddy bubbles” have rolled across my mind and washed all my troubles away.

Hunched over my computer like a spy sending dispatches to the enemy, I slumped even farther when I heard Norma stumbling down the hall.  I snatch such free moments as I can by getting her settled comfortably on the sofa and then telling her, “I'm going to the office. I'll be right back.”  If I'm gone more than 10 minutes, I can almost be sure she'll get up and start looking for me, and I'll have to face the prospect of her falling and injuring herself, as she has before.  I shout for her to sit back down and then close out the file I'm working on. By the time I get to her, she's seated in the dining room looking exceedingly normal. She smiles without me jumping through hoops to amuse her, and her eyes make contact with mine  I make myself a light lunch of orange juice and vodka and Roger Miller, his voice as flinty edged and authoritative as a papal decree.  The song is so beautiful I began crying—not misting up, mind you, but shedding real tears.