Three times a week, Grandfather Chen would ferry the both of us in his enormous liability-ridden Cutlass Supreme–painted a lavish maroon, the interior laden with mountains of bundled newspapers that left the white leather permanently besmeared with ink residue–to the practice diamonds near Houston Baptist University, where I would be dropped off, smelling of fresh newsprint. Then he would leave to make his rounds.

Read the rest in Weave Issue 7
2011 Annie Dillard Award in Creative Non-Fiction Finalist (Judge: Ira Sukrungruang)