I’m legally dead and I can tell you it’s not all it’s promised to be. I’m not even sure what my name is any more. Let alone whether I belong where I’m living.
When I wasn’t dead, I owned a small house, and I could get a loan when I needed to replace my plumbing. Now, legally, I don’t own any small house and I’m not responsible for any plumbing.
My wife looks at me funny. Legally, she’s not my wife anymore. Technically, she could remarry, but, hey, I’m still here. I say, “You’re not going to do anything foolish,” and she says, “That’s what you think, but who are you?” I say, “When you’re enjoying the insurance settlement, you know who to thank.” She says, “I vaguely remember; I used to be married to someone who looked like you. I wouldn’t want to make that mistake again.”
There’s a legal process for declaring someone dead, but nothing for bringing that person back to life. It’s a one-way street, a weight that falls and can’t be picked up again. I could complain all I wanted, standing up as tall as I could, but I would still have no legal standing. After the rain has fallen, no one’s going put the raindrops back in the clouds.
Monologues