As we drove home past the cemetery one neighbourhood over today, I mentioned to The Electrician the historical tours that particular graveyard has been offering lately, and asked if he’d like to join me some time for a look around. I like graveyards and enjoy visiting them; my beloved is not so enthusiastic about marble orchards. When I asked him about it, he said touring a graveyard always makes him think about death, and there are a number of other things he’d prefer to think about.
A few blocks past the cemetery, I inquired, “So, when you die, what do you want me to do with your remains?” We’d just enjoyed a lovely meal with his mom and grandparents, so I figured I’d keep the warm and fuzzy sentiments going. He gave me a strange look, complete with raised eyebrow. By “strange look,” I mean he looked at me
thinking knowing I am strange, not that his face was arranged in an unusual manner.
Without wavering from an absolute deadpan, he stated, “Meh, just have me preserved.” He continued to pilot the truck as though our conversation had not veered wildly into the macabre. He’s a dependable one, my sweetie.
“Preserved?” I thought for a moment. “You mean like Lenin?”
“Like formaldehyde and a glass coffin, Lenin?”
“That could work.”
“I could put you in the livingroom and use your glass casket as a handsome coffee table. Buy you flowers and all that.” Wait a minute, wasn’t Snow White also in a glass coffin? This sounds quite Disney post-mortem, actually. Cue the dwarves.
“Nah, maybe just have me stuffed.”
“Stuffed? Like, stuffed?”
“Sure. I’m sure your brother knows a good taxidermist or two.” Yes, yes he does. I hope none of the guys my brother takes the upper portions of deer and moose to has any experience preserving humans. Shudder.
“How about I change your outfits seasonally. Like that creepy mannequin down the block.”
“If you really want to, but-”
“Only,” I corrected, “less military, since you’re not a veteran.”
“Sure.” I was pretty sure at this point he was picturing me planning outfits to add flair to the decor.”Whatever you like, sweetie.”
“Can I still keep you in the livingroom?” I pictured The Electrician in a Tim Burton-esque case, glass eyes and all. It was a hairy picture, but certainly not a pretty one. At least he was smiling.
He chuckled. “Most definitely. You’ve got that big sectional. Just prop me up and one end and put a beer in my hand. I’ll be happy if I have a beer and I can really relax.”
“Any particular brand, sir?” I asked him, playing along with the shenanigans.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he snorted. “I’ll be dead. I won’t need the good stuff. Just a beer.”
“I can see you now, comfy and well-integrated into the decor.” He nodded and we drove with only the sound of the radio for another block. “Aha!” I smacked him on the thigh. “I figured out your plan, mister. If you die first, I’ll never remarry if you’re sitting on the couch, keeping your glass eyes on things.”
“Exactly,” he confirmed. “I’d keep you safe from all those freaks and losers. Men would never want to come over.”
So, my future husband plans to keep me safe even after death.
True love is so beautiful.
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