Grant Yamada

Cash

My grandfather was about as open as his buried casket. Languishing in war-torn Vietnam must do that to a person. When I was little, we used to visit him and my grandmother at their house in the desert. Every time we pulled up, we’d almost certainly find him out in the garage, fiddling with some rusted out Camero. He’d incline his head as our car parked in his driveway, before moseying on over to us as we got out. I’d slam my car door as loud as possible, yell “hi grandpa!” before rushing inside to take shelter from the unbearable heat.