Tipping the Scales

Funny thing it is to be set finely between Heaven and Earth. The whispered prayers of generations and the quiet answers born on cherubs’ wings all grace one’s ears. The name on the headstone was not unfamiliar to these airy communications.

She was beloved. She was despised.

She had brought peace. She had done so at a terrible price.

The scales of divinity had weighed her life continually since her death infinitesimally swayed this way and that by multitudes of prayers. As the child lay my feather on the ground, the arms of fate creaked and groaned. But it did not tip, I would have sensed that momentous occasion.

“Will it be enough?” the boy asked, his exuberance now deflated by doubt.

“We can only hope, son, and pray.”

As they knelt on the damp ground, my body became heavy. My time was short, but oh what a blessing it had been. Perhaps to repay that blessing, or perhaps to have had some effect I crept upon the tombstone.

Life fled my limbs, now stone again. With that bulk, the balance tipped.

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