“Kirk,” said a voice amidst the city in motion.

Cars, bikes, buses, people all determined to get from home to work as fast as possible. Horns signaled discontent if the pace slowed. I figured it was someone yelling at their demons.

Mentally unstable transients always congregated where I stood in Westlake Square—an open-air halfway house for vagrants contemplating their next move.

I continued reading the latest issue of The Week, engrossed in the story of Estelle Getty’s career, as traffic thundered by on 4th avenue.

“Kirk,” said the voice again, but louder and articulate. I realized that someone was calling out my name. I couldn’t imagine who would recognize me in the crowd of commuters waiting for buses in downtown Seattle, but I looked up.

Across the street and standing on the other side was my cousin. Astonished, I waved to him and tried to cross the middle of the street, gave up, walked up to the curb and used the crosswalk.

He usually lives in Yakima, but now he stood in downtown Seattle on a morning that I decided to come in early to work. I couldn’t sleep and just wanted the last day of the work week to be over.

I rushed over to him and hugged him. He was wearing a gray polo shirt, jeans, and white shoes. His left hand held a small McDonald’s bag, which made me crave an Egg McMuffin.

He told me he had been in Seattle for almost a month and he finished his project he was leaving Seattle. “I wondered if I would see you down here,” he said. “I don’t have your number. I got a new phone. ”

I smiled to hide my shock. My cousin was practically living in Seattle for a month and I knew nothing about it. I was stunned and sad at the same time. I felt the tears starting to rise through the ducts, but I kept them back.

I fought back tears because I realized, as we chatted about work and life, that I missed him. Seeing my cousin in Seattle made me feel more at home. I missed seeing my own family in my own town. It had been years since I left Yakima. I haven’t lived in the same place as my family for over ten years.

During that time I made friends as close as brothers while my cousins entered and left the military, started families, and settled into Yakima life. I came home rarely.

I told him I would be in Yakima again in early September. “You’re welcome to stay at our place,” he said. I didn’t expect him to offer up his place for my wife and I stay. We had not seen each other since Christmas. It was like that each time we reunited for whatever reason. We would pick up our relationship where we left off as if no time had passed. But time had passed.

He said he had to get work. Two of my buses passed by while we talked. I didn’t care. I reached toward him and gave him another hug. I told him it was good to see him and we parted ways.

Another 545 to Redmond came shortly afterward and I embarked on the last leg of my commute for the morning. I sank in my seat, stunned. I immediately texted him my phone number so he would always have it.

He wrote back that it was good to see me and signed off, “Love you bro.”

I replied, “Seeing you today made me realize how much I miss seeing you. Love you too.”