Their stories aren't mine to tell, but I can visit them. I did last night. A cousin of mine, her husband, and their 11-year-old daughter live in Portland. Two other family members of ours, an aunt and uncle we share who usually are on the literal other side of the world, are in town at the moment. On Monday my cousin let me know and passed along my aunt's cell phone number to me; I sent my number to my aunt; and yesterday my aunt called me to invite me and my cousin's family to dinner.
So I got unexpected visiting time, and good Vietnamese food (at Pho Oregon), with family members I don't often see.
We talked about things we probably needed to talk about. Being out of touch for a while as I was, everyone I caught up with had good news and sad news as well to share. Again, not my stories to tell, but I heard them.
My cousin and her family have a neat house; it was my first time visiting it. It looks larger than it seems from the front, partly because what had been a backyard breezeway was expanded into a surprisingly large family room, with a still-large backyard beyond that. The kitchen has an open window into that family room; it used to be a real window with glass, but that would be pointless now. And the way into that spacious family room almost feels like a secret passage; it's like a house with secrets. Happy secrets.
Again: a good time with family members. And a reminder that I can see them more often.