Days of the Locust

Sometimes I think my mother, who’s had a stroke and suffers from dementia, is really all there. Her eyes still gleam with uncanny intelligence. But other times I have to admit there are pieces missing from her memory—or perhaps pieces that have been replaced by other people’s memories. One of her caregivers often quizzes her about her life.  The other day she asked my mother how many children she had: Three. (Good!) How many sons and how many daughters? All sons. (I’m her daughter.) And what’s her name (pointing to me)? Phyllis. (I’m Mia.)