He sat in the coffee shop waiting for the mother he hadn't seen since he was one and a half years old. Would she be old and ugly, or had she retained the beauty of her youth. It didn't matter; he had never had a visual memory of her. In his mind he saw a crippled old women weathered and beaten by the years. She was only fifteen years older than he, but he knew from his condition how cruel the years could be. Did she hold a memory of him, or had she created his image to fulfill her needs. Would it even be his mother or another opportunist seeking sustenance in her old age? He had fought this battle with doubt before. He was a Celtic warrior by birth and almost immediately thrown into the turmoil called life. The ability to survive had always been strong in him, but his life was coming to an end. All war is inevitably lost to time. One last battle remained and he fought to see it through. Reunification with his roots was paramount to his existence. One last chance to say goodbye and thanks for his source of perseverance.
There was a time when like the cliche, it was simpler to understand. Right and wrong were always central themes in his moral upbringing. As a Catholic it was simple to remember the difference, if it felt good, it was sinful. If it was untainted by human qualities it was acceptable, as long as you did penance. No one truly had any hope of making it to Heaven without stopping first in purgatory to be purged by the equivalent of the fires of Hell. Only purified souls entered the kingdom, and only saints qualified.
It appeared on the surface that his search was an act of disrespect toward his adoptive family. It was not intended as such. No one really understands the longing that develops. Maybe it's like the carrot on the stick in front of the horse driving him on, but once the flame has been ignited, only the tempest of despair can extinguish it.
The Irish pipes softly sang a mournful tune of the mysteries of life over the coffee shop ceiling speakers. The wail mixed with the violins sowing threads of sympathetic tears into the matrix and harp tones flowed like water over a rain gutter.
It was almost time for her to arrive. He noticed several candidates shuffling by the window. One dressed in a business suit, another in a plain dress with a shawl draped over her head and shoulders. Another with....
The EKG machine blared its monotone note. His unblinking blue eyes stared up at the ceiling. His children rushed to his side, but the war was over. The wail of the pipes had ended. The fair hills were silent and another warrior went to rest.
