Is this really all he is?
This piece of paper, with letters and numbers, that I waited for so long to have. The state’s recognition of his existence, or lack of. And despite being his wife, the state’s permission for me to manage his affairs.
This is all they think he is. All he was. Not a person, a husband, son, teacher, friend, lover.
But this is what we all become. Just another name, personal details, list of belongings, on a page with an official stamp; deceased estate.
I’ve waited and endured for 8 months for probate. I should feel relieved, elated even?
I feel sick.
Deeply, irreparably hollowed out.
This is not Michael. His life, his energy, his intelligence. His heart and mind bigger and brighter than could ever be explained or described. Pricelessly precious.
How can you measure the sum of a life on a few sheets of paper in black and white?
This is not my Michael.