The bathroom mirror has grown sluggish. When I brush my teeth and stick out my tongue, foam clinging to the corners of my mouth, it takes seven seconds for the girl inside the mirror to do the same. I force a smile. The foam is already drying on my cheek, but her face remains blank, as if she’s forgotten how to move.

I call someone to replace it. The installer steps in and says, “This mirror’s fine. What are you trying to fix?” I tell him it’s slow. Forgetful. He frowns, and so does his reflection. He grins, revealing yellowed teeth, and the mouth in the mirror stains the same. “It just reacts a little late,” he says, wiping away steam. “Like someone getting old.”

I put on the red dress Mom gave me for my birthday two years ago. The zipper sticks halfway up my back. “Do you still recognize me?” I ask. The girl in the mirror still wears a white blouse and straight pants. I tie my hair into a ponytail and grin at her; her hair hangs loose, her makeup flawless. I pull out my old stuffed rabbit from the back of the closet, my best friend from childhood. Her version slings a black crossbody bag.

I want to lash out. At her slowness. Her confusion. I glare. She looks back, uneasy. Fine lines gather at her eyes. Silver threads appear at her temples. Her figure swells like rising dough. Only when the peony-shaped jade brooch emerges at her collar do I realize: She looks just like my mother, before dementia took her.

Now we both stand still. I wait for her to catch up. And she, maybe, is waiting without knowing why.