Mirror, mirror

As one year blends into another, and my mother loses her grasp on familiar faces, I begin to wonder if she recognizes her own reflection.  One day, I put her to the test.  

Standing with my mother in front of the large wall mirror in the bathroom, I ask she wants some ice cream.  She smiles and nods. 

I glance at our reflections and ask my mother, “Should we ask them?”  She turns toward the mirror and smiles at herself. 

“Do you? Do you?” she asks our reflections.  Greeted with her own grinning face, she looks away and laughs. 

“What do you think, Mom?”  I inquire again.  She returns her focus to the mirror, holding out her hand and waiting expectantly for her likeness to answer.  She makes eye contact with my reflection and grins, then turns to the real me and asks, “Ice cream?” 

I wonder if she is playing along or if she thinks the extra people in the wall are real.  I am still pondering this a few months later when my mother and I are sweeping the hallway. 

On the wall by my parents’ room hangs a decorative mirror, and on a day like any other, my mother walks too close to it and notices the image staring back at her, less than five inches away. 

She growls at her appearance.  I spin around just in time to witness my mother yelling at the reflection.

“You are not me,” she snarls and then throws the back of her fist into the face in the mirror. 

Luckily the glass does not break and I catch the mirror before it comes off the wall.  After checking that the mirror is secure, I lead my mother, who is still glaring daggers at her reflection, away. 

As a family, we watch for any more hostility towards herself, but as the months pass, so too does my mother’s ability to recognize herself.  Now when she sees mirror-people, she smiles, excited to have the extra company.