Old Claw Hammer

Its handle, darkened with age, had split from bottom end up. It’s necessary to hold it together, with a tight grip, while striking the nail. “I bought this in Montana,” he said, holding up the hammer he was using to repair my wisteria trellis. “Whoa,” I said. “Can you still use it?” “Watch,” he said, driving nails into wood. He looked at me in triumph, hand extended toward the trellis arm, now straight as an arrow. His eyes spoke to me, not of an old hammer's worth, but of his own un-laureled vitality, the promise, and the permanence of love.