Head In The Oven.

I am listening to Patsy Cline.
Her voice brings me back to a place in time on my grandpa's back porch sitting in the sun with a small tumbler of pepsi on ice. My Mom is probably talking with him at the kitchen table, or they are sitting in the living room watching golf.
His house had incredible light.
If I could buy that house, even with all of the bad memories from later on, I would buy it in a second.
I would buy it for the light.

Other things I remember?
The birdhouse he would tack paper targets to for me to practice with my BB gun.
The large rock that he spray painted a face on and tried convincing me it was a large turtle's head coming out of the ground.
The tow rope he would tie over a branch for me to swing on.
An emergency flashlight in the basement that had a red strobe.
The creek.
An occasional Dove bar.
His office with a dish of change that I would try and pinch quarters from.

We don't get a say in who our relatives are.
We only have a choice in how we see them when they are alive, and how we remember them when they are gone.