On Mondays and Thursdays I try to take my mother out to Bob Evans for lunch. My mother was born July 1, 1915. I am a late child. My mother has dementia, which is a polite way of saying she is senile, although she doesn't seem to have Alzheimer's, Parkinson's or any other specific cause for it.
She loses odd things. Today I watched her eat her meatloaf and mashed potatoes with a long-handled ice tea spoon. Sometimes the array of silverware baffles her (although she has never eaten with a knife--in fact, as far as I can tell she does not use a knife at all these days.) She sorts through her silverware, arranging and rearranging it. Moving it on to her napkin on the left side of her plate. A moment later, moving the fork to the right side and carefully inserting it between her iced tea and the plate, even though this means shoving it under the lip of the plate.
She is sorting. Sorting. Sorting. Making sense, I think.