White house, two stories, and crispy grass everyone neglected to water. That one's mine. With the flower power tiles peeling on the stairs, and Allan Jackson's twangy voice ringing through the kitchen. The light from the fierce July sun illuminated the living room's shiny blue walls. There, five picture frames hung in unison. The center frame contained our cliché family photo. All six of us were there, strategically placed on the platform of the cold gray studio. Our color clashing outfits almost took away from the smiles we were cheezin' for the man with puppet. The short dark man in the back looked happy to be with all of us. He was the one that left for work before I woke up, and often came home long after I had been tucked in and kissed goodnight. After dinner, we covered his plate with tinfoil, and slid it into the refrigerator, only to see the empty dishes in the sink when we awoke. He tried to be there, he really did. But no one competes with the man that signs your checks.