The things we remember

It's strange, the things we remember.

I sometimes cannot recall what I did a day ago or worse, what I set out to do a few minutes ago. But I can remember with clarity my Lola's house.

I remember the clay-red tiles on the ground floor balcony, the books in Spanish at the 'library', the kalachuchi flowers that bordered the driveaway as well as the roses. I even remember Patsy, her dog, who we buried in the garden near the gate.