No longer reliable servants to her brain, Norma's hands have taken on a life of their own.  They pick at invisible specks on the cushions beside her.  In the bathroom, they tear off and neatly fold short pieces of toilet paper and, once folded, set them aside.  The other night they folded and discarded nine pieces of tissue before I lifted her up and walked her into bed. Sometimes when she's eating, they put her fork in her Coke.  As she watches television, they try to weave the corner of a blanket into her pajama leg or hover at her chest clutching a cookie they don't know what to do with.  They tie and untie the draw strings on her pajamas and rise and pivot in the air like erratic drones while her eyes are shut or looking elsewhere.  They cannot sign her name.

But I cherish these aimless hands and remember the otherworldly ecstasy of holding them the first time.  Tonight as I hold her hands and watch her sleep, I am sadder than I've been in years.  Word came this afternoon that a friend of 57 years has been told she has only four or five months to live.  I don't tell Norma because she wouldn't recall who the woman is, much less absorb the impact of her sentencing. But the news really jolts me. Death keeps hitting closer home. Norma has become gaunt and feeble and essentially impervious to joy.  I'll be 85 next month and a target larger than Georgia on the actuarial table.  Still, neither of us has yet been notified of the estimated number of our days. That's cheering.  Maybe we're good for another year or two, I think (with crossed fingers).

Tonight I don't want to scurry to my office as soon as I put Norma to bed.  I want to turn on “Stardust” and sit beside her without talking until the album plays through.  I want to feel the warmth of her tiny palms, the gentle indentations of her finger nails and rejoice that she is still with me even in a diminished form.   I'm not exactly an Olympian myself.