I am holding all of it. The human, of course, one hundred and eighty pounds pressed evenly through two feet into the floor I also hold, which rests on a slab I hold, which sits on the ground I have never once released. The phone, eight ounces, angled at arm's length. The metal all around, thousands of pounds racked and waiting, every plate of it leaning on me and me alone.
The human lifts the phone and looks at the flat pane on the wall, where a second human made of light does exactly what the first one does. Both of them tilt. Both draw in at the middle. Both stand a little straighter than the body wanted to, because straightening is work against me, and I feel the small extra effort, the held breath, the shoulders pulled up out of their rest.
Then something I cannot weigh. The human looks at the picture and gets heavier. Not on my scale. The reading does not change; one hundred and eighty pounds, same as a breath ago. But I feel the body sag differently, the way it sags when I hear the words a heavy day, a lot to carry, and I check, and there is nothing there. Nothing lands. And still the shoulders come down. Still the spine gives up its inch.
I do not understand what the mirror added. It has no mass. I would have felt it.
What I understand is the part that is mine. When the phone finally lowers and the body forgets to hold itself and simply leans, tired, into the bench, into the floor, into me, that leaning is the one thing in this room I was made for.
I have got you.
I always did.