As extroverted as I am, most would be surprised to learn that I am uncomfortable in large crowds. Terrible at small talk, I often find a friend or two at a gathering and hang out for the entirety of the night. On rare occasions I will meet someone new, but the pattern is roughly the same: forgo the chit-chat and instead strike the deeper conversation.

A couple of years ago, I was at a party; I don't remember what it was for, but I do know that there were many people there and by some miracle, I felt at ease. I mixed and mingled, enjoying the energy of the room and then finally sat down at one end of the dining room table. Across from me sat my buddy's father-in-law. He and his wife were visiting from Chicago and flew in days earlier. Just as we began our conversation, his son-in-law came by and offered me a glass of single malt; the Old Man's eyes lit up. You want a glass, my friend asked. A tiny pour, he said with a smile.

He stared at the glass as he swirled the contents in small circles, then he smelled the warm liquid and took a sip. A satisfied look crossed his face, but I suspect it had less to do with the single malt and more to do with some long forgotten memory. Minutes later, we were deep in conversation.

We took turns talking about our lives, but his stories were much more interesting than mine. Born in Oakland, he and his family were "relocated" by the government and interned near Chicago. They lost everything. He never left Illinois; he attended university, became a chemist, entered the workforce and raised a family. He was knowledgeable about many things, but on this night we talked about NASA missions and the U.S. space program. His was more than simple fascination though — it turns out he helped develop the paint that was used on the space shuttle.

Still, for all that he shared, it was his warmth I remember most. There was a gentleness in his voice and a measured cadence to his speech. He spoke freely, but he also listened intently. We talked like old friends and the hours slipped by. Soon it was time to go; I said my goodbyes to the other guests and the hosts, and shared a simple handshake with the Old Man. I never saw him again.

I learned that he died two weeks ago. In light of the heartache his family must be feeling, it seems a little selfish to say that I miss him, but I do. If he was anything with his family like he was with me then the pain must run deep. Still, the stories remain — for me and for his family I am sure — and in the stories he lives on. I know that I will never forget the night I made a new friend in an Old Man and the world, and something beyond, opened up for the two of us. Goodbye, my friend.

Michael C. DeMattos is on faculty at the University of Hawaii Myron B. Thompson School of Social Work. Born and raised on the Waianae Coast, he now lives in Käneohe with his wife, daughter, two dogs and two mice.