I don't know why I remember

I don't know why I remember the way beer bottle caps smelled after my grandfather would hand them to me. They were so cold and smelled so bread-y. It was so different from any other scent in that house, a house full of dust and dried prize roses my grandfather grew in his front yard. I don't know why I remember licking the inside, feeling the refrigerated metal warm against my tongue, in my hand. I don't know why I remember sitting with the little collection of them that I hid in the bottom of the toy basket my grandparents kept for me; stacking the bottle caps and pressing their edges into my palm while listening to my grandpa and daddy talk about grown up things and grandma and mommy argue in the kitchen about dinner.