An hour into our most recent visit, for the third time my mother asked, "Is it Saturday?"
And for the third time I said, "No, Mom, it's Monday."
"So you see, as I keep telling you, I am losing my memory." Looking at me, as if to explain, she pointed to her temples. "Soon I won't know who I am."
"On the contrary," I tried to assure her, "Your memory is fine, even for someone much younger than you."
"Everyone's younger than me."
"That's remarkably true," I said, smiling proudly, "And wonderful."
"So why don't I know what day it is?" she persisted.
"Neither do I," I said, half truthfully.