He’s the oldest of my dad’s twin brother. Just a few months older than me. After more than 10 years, I saw him again yesterday at dinner.

I had been walking around Pacific East Mall, looking for sunglasses. I had left my pair at the salsa club Saturday night, rushing out to catch the 1 am Bart train since the Bay Bridge was closed. When I finally found the right pair, I walked to the restaurant. Through the restaurant windows, I saw my cousin standing between my aunt and my dad, surrounded by my grandfather and my uncle. Looking at a camera.

Small scattered breakouts, which runs in the family. He had this sincere interested way of speaking. Despite everyone else speaking Chinese, he didn’t react in surprise even though he didn’t understand a single thing. In California for a vacation after a rotation at Daimler-Chrysler, he was visiting friends. Staying in Sunnyvale, but had time to drive North to see us.

He wore a white polo shirt and stood towering above most of the family. Carrying a canon s200. He called my dad by his first name, Paul–the same way my grandmother calls my dad–aaah-Paul in a soft tone. My grandfather can’t speak English and simply patted Matthew on the back as they parted.

We bid our farewells as we walked toward our car. Promises to come back for my grandfather’s birthday the following year. No more decade-long gaps?