A mother's descent into Alzheimer's

I’LL tell you when I knew. A little more than three years ago, or during the last autumn the problem would go unadmitted, my parents visited Washington as part of their annual eastern swing from Los Angeles. We agreed to meet at a local restaurant, and I arrived sheepishly late to find that my mother, at 71, had fallen into a conversation at the bar with a gregarious young stranger. He had evidently just arrived home from a Hawaiian vacation of much debauchery.  

My mother, her well-coiffed hair the hue of a red October leaf, her head thrown back in mock pain, laughed loudly at his stories, girlishly tittering: She is, or was, one of those people who somehow look young even when old. “Please, please, please, you’re too funny,” I heard her saying from across the restaurant.