when my ex-wife dies

by Benjamin Drevlow

When my ex-wife dies, and I promise it won’t be by my hand, I’ll bring her back home and have her stuffed and it won’t be for any sexy stuff, it’ll be so she can stand at the door and welcome me home every night with her hands on her hips with that expression she used to always give me, the one that said, I’m for real this time, I’m never coming back, you need serious help, this isn’t funny anymore, and I’ll dress her up different ways for different seasons–coats, scarves, tube-tops, and one-piece bathing suits, sexy, but nothing too revealing, just like her, and every time I leave I’ll say, I’ll see you in a bit, baby, and every time I come back I’ll say, Hel-lo stranger, and I’ll train the dogs to obey her beck and call, sit, stay, don’t pee on that, and Mommy needs some puppy lovin, and it’ll be like she never left, like she never broke her vows, like I was always there for her, and always listened when she said she couldn’t stand me anymore, and I’ll tell my therapist all about all this and she’ll say how much I’ve grown, how much better I am with my abandonment issues, the way I never have nightmares anymore about all the women in the world abandoning me simultaneously, it’ll be like CBT therapy for if I’m ever ready to marry again, my only worry, that one day, should I marry again, and should my new wife find my old wife taxidermied and enshrined in my bedroom and start asking incriminating questions, like, I thought you said you were finally over her and you said they never found her body, and I’ll have to be like, I promise, baby, baby, I promise, it wasn’t by my hand, this is all just for my personal growth, and if only you could’ve seen me back then, with her, and then without, and boy oh boy, if could’ve seen me then, you wouldn’t recognize the man who stands here, and you’d completely understand, which then when my second wife dies—eventually, and totally not suspiciously immediately after our getting married, for which I promise you it won’t be by my hand—then the two of them’ll have somebody to keep company and to compare notes, oh what chatty-Kathys they’ll be, my two beloved taxidermied wives, the sassy gossip, the airing of grievances, dirty little secrets, skeletons in the closet—ha!—and every night we’ll all play Two Truths and a Lie, her and her and the dogs and me and you, Baby—lucky number three!—together til the end, for me anyway, which I sadly can’t promise you it won’t be by my own hand, but rest assured you won’t have to worry about a lifting a finger because I have it all planned out in my will, my taxidermist already on speed dial and on file with my most flattering posture and finest suit and undergarments, and eventually you when you die, Baby, which I promise will probably be long down the road and won’t be at the hands of me or my loyal dogs or the robot dog servant I’ve commissioned to feed them and let them out and scratch their bellies for when you’re not around any longer and roll us all out every night for fun and games and sassy banter, oh what a sitcom life we’ll have on our hands if only you’ll sign this little paper for me.

Photo of Benjamin Drevlow

BIO: drevlow is the eic of all things BULL and writes prose and poetry about mostly the same bull stuff from his trash-covered office in Statesboro, GA where his not-dead wife and three trash dogs continue to tolerate him and all his online ramblings at thedrevlow-olsonshow.com or on twitter, insta, face, bsky, & threads @thedrevlow.