#my blog is essentially just a Hob Gadling altar now tbh

[littledreamling]

A Funeral for a Living Ghost

An excerpt from my upcoming ficlet about religion and mourning and the process of letting go

Hob Gadling had a bad habit of attending his own funerals.

It had started in the early 1500's. He had taken something of an extended vacation, traveling to the Holy City of Rome, finally restored to its former glory after languishing for years while the Papacy resided in France. When he had returned to London after twenty or so years, his beard grown in and his hair significantly lighter from the southern sun, he had been welcomed back by his neighbors as his own son. He had been forced to, on the spot, spin a tall tale about his dear father, who had met his demise under the hooves of a draft horse. The entire town, good Catholic Christians that they had been, had insisted on a funeral. Last rites and all, they had said, and Hob had been too touched to refuse. The majority of the attendees hadn't even known him; they had simply known of him, had heard stories from their parents about their old friend, Robert Gadling.

There hadn't been a body to bury, for obvious reasons, but he assured his neighbors, to the best of his ability, that the body of his father had been laid to rest in Rome. Not home soil, but holy soil nonetheless. Still, his neighbors insisted that there be, if not a funeral, a service. A commemoration of his life, of everything Robert Gadling had done for his community and once again, Hob was too touched to refuse.

The church had been quiet; the kind of quiet you could feel in your soul. It was the quiet of respect, of mourning, of a great and terrible sorrow. In that quiet, Hob Gadling found himself thinking of his own father, the father he truly had lost, and found that the stinging tears prickling at his eyes were as real as any he'd ever shed.

For the first time, he had allowed himself to mourn his friends; those he had known, the parents and grandparents of those who filled the pews of the church, those he had seen be born, those he had seen take their first steps and babble their first words, those he had attended weddings and funerals for. He had allowed himself to mourn that version of Hob Gadling, the name he would never wear again, the person he could never be again, the life he lived until he could live it no longer. He had mourned, and then he had left.