Proof of life

I read about it in the paper all the time, one day a person stops getting his social security checks, his visits to the doctor are not being covered, people seem to look through him when they cross his way on the sidewalk and a strange sense of emptiness starts to engulf him.
In the beginning he tries to laugh it off as nothing but his sick imagination, a glitch in the mail,  a petty quarrel with a good friend, nothing to be alarmed at, but the signs keep mounting up and it becomes harder and harder to avoid the sickening feeling.
So the other day when I log into my bank account, as I do every third Wednesday of the month and the money wasn’t there I feel the cold crawling down my spine. Its true then, all these stories I refused to believe in, I am on my way to become one of these walking dead.  I too will walk down the street and good friends that I knew since we were kids will look straight through me as if I was not there.
I pull out of my failing memory all the times that I crossed them; in kindergarten in the sand box, in elementary school when I told the teacher on them, perhaps stole a girl-friend or two, but I am sure we got over it a long time ago, or did we?
With the disappearing friends more signs appear every day. I get  a notice in my mail-box that my health plan was terminated and a quick note of condolences from my family doctor, it is not even addressed to me, I notice with a growing sense of alarm.
Additional cards with “we are thinking of you in these hard times,” appear every day and it becomes harder and harder to laugh them off.
“What you need is a proof of life, “my wife suggests one morning over a cup of coffee. By now she is the only one who still believes that I am alive and by the distant look in her eyes I know that the end is in sight.
“I read about it in the internet, “She continues.
“It is a rather simple procedure; you go to a lawyer, fill up a form declaring that you are alive and get it notarized.”
Ah, the light at the end of the tunnel, my breathing stabilizes and for a moment I feel lighter than air.
The next day I make an appointment and dressed appropriately for the occasion, show up promptly at the office. The lawyer, a pleasant middle-aged woman, hands me the form with instructions to return the next day with two witnesses and a proof that I am still alive.
I look at her speechless, “a proof that I am still alive,” I croak, trying to clear the sudden dryness in my throat.
“I am here, standing in front of you, isn’t that a proof,”
She nods her head amazed at my naivety.
“All I have is your word,” she says announcing each word slowly, “you cannot expect me to rely on that.”