The year was 2013 and I was based in Robertstown, County Kildare.

My parents and I traveled around the countryside by day, but I spent nearly every night at Charlie Weld's - a cozy little pub down the road from our cottage.

My first night there, I met a man named Pat. He was 68 years old at the time, and I was just 21.

Over the following two weeks, Pat and I spent our nights chatting away over seemingly endless pints of Guinness. In his younger days, he was a football coach and he shared countless tales about his travels with me.

He gave me sage advice which helped me through a transitional period in my young life. He also taught me how to drink Guinness - in three large but spaced-out gulps, and you order your next pint after the second gulp. It does take a while for a Guiness to be poured properly, after all. 

We grew close during our time together, so much so that on my last night in Ireland he and the other friends I had made at the pub wouldn’t let me leave. We stayed until close and even a bit after. I ran out of (cash) Euros, but my new friends insisted that I stay so they paid for my pints. They made me promise that I would come back to the pub to see them, and of course, I obliged.

Fast forward three and a half years and my family in Ireland was hosting a large family gathering around St. Patrick’s Day 2017. I was elated upon hearing this news. Not only would I be going to Ireland with my brother Jon, but I could also reunite with Patrick and introduce my brother to all my friends in County Kildare.

Our first night at the cottages I took Jon down to the local pub, and all around me were familiar faces. I smiled and nodded at everyone while looking around for Pat. His usual seat at the bar was empty and he wasn’t out back with the smokers.

After searching the pub, I found a young woman who I had met during my last stay. I asked if she knew Pat, and the color instantly drained from her beautiful face. She glanced up at a photo hanging above the bar. Instantly I knew what this meant. I was too late. I had waited too long. My promise to reunite with Pat was unfulfilled.

Few moments in my life compare to what I had felt that night. I lost focus on everything around me and slowly backed away to exit the pub. I didn’t want to be caught crying in front of my friends and family. Jon had followed me out and helped get me back to the cottage.

That night, I wept myself to sleep, and when I awoke it felt like a piece of my soul was missing. My brother poked his head into my room to let me know he was heading down to the café with some of our family for breakfast. I told him I’d meet up in a bit, even though I felt like doing nothing.

Eventually, I put myself together and walked into town. I entered the café and a large table was occupied by my brother and some other family members. Everyone looked up at me.

Before I could say anything, Jon stood up, grabbed my arm, and said “Sean..”

The tone of his voice was serious, but with a slight quiver to it. I could tell something was up.

"...I was walking along the canal this morning thinking about last night, and I saw a piece of trash on the ground. I don’t know why, but I decided to pick it up. Is ... is this Pat?”

I took the laminated piece of paper from him. It was heavily tattered and worn from the Irish weather, but sure enough, the man in the picture was my old friend Pat. It was Pat's memorial card from his funeral - dated January 2, 2016. That's 15 months prior to it being found on the ground by my brother.

“I have to admit, when I saw this ... I was shook.”

Shook was certainly one word for it. I, however, felt an overwhelming sense of fulfillment and joy.

As my eyes swelled up again, I knew everything was okay, and so did Pat.

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