Today I woke up and thought that I have not written in a long time and it is not for the lack of thoughts, memories, or incidents of our daily lives which define who we are. What happens to all these memories, stories, and events after we do not exist anymore? The answer to that question has hunted me since my sweet darling passed on. People, in general, are curious. Recently, while talking to coworkers, a new friend asked me about the origin of my accent. " American? ". The first time I have been asked that! Usually, I get other nationalities, influenced mainly by my phenotype assuming that it is South African, Dutch, German, or from Newfoundland, but once I say my name some say " Ah, yes, I can hear the Spanish accent! ". Of course, people from work know my name and know where I am from, but they are still curious. Telling people how this accent was created takes me back, through memory lane. Me in Cuba, coming to Canada, escaping to the USA, marrying