Marla clasped the mauve wool sweater to her chest, shuffling her mind's contents to reveal the last time she'd seen the garment on her mother. Her mind had slowly decayed, memories becoming distressed and distorted near her death.
The script of personality had been almost re-written, the favorite sweater taking a backseat role to other nondescript dresses. Alzheimer's changes a person.
Marla paced the room, senseless as a sleepwalker,tightly clutching the sweater in both hands as if fearing its dismemberment by possible onlookers. The jangle of keys at her apartment doors roused Marla. She hurriedly hid the sweater in her closet, nestling it between several unknown sartorial articles. Trying to compose herself, she retreated to the mirror. Her hands navigated the furrows of her face,clinging for comfort.
Reality flickered focus. A gasp suddenly escaped Marla's tried tranquility. The face in the mirror was not her own. Her mother's eyes stared back from the other side of the glass.