On the Scale

I climbed from the high stool onto the butcher-block counter, drawn toward the vintage pale-green mechanical scale resting beside the flour jar. Its stainless-steel pan sat completely empty, catching the morning light. Bracing both hands against the smooth rolled rim, I hoisted myself up and planted both shoes firmly in the center of the shallow dish. Beneath me, the delicate internal spring gave a muted click, and behind the round glass dial, the red indicator needle shuddered and crept forward, settling just shy of sixty grams. I stood still, feeling the gentle balance beneath my soles, quietly admiring the tangible proof that I truly occupy a place in this room.