It happened on a Friday afternoon. Mid-pry. One stubborn nail, one determined woman, and one very old hammer that finally said, “Nope.”
With a dramatic crack, the head flew off and hit the floor — not with a bang, but with the kind of exhausted sigh only 20+ years of loyal service can earn. And I just stood there, teary-eyed, cradling the splintered handle and slightly rusty head like it had been more than just wood and steel. (Which, apparently, it was.)
I never thought of it as sentimental — just a tool. It lived in the bottom of my toolbox, pulled out for picture frames, quick fixes, and many ambitious DIY adventures that may or may not have involved watching one too many YouTube videos. This hammer had been with me through all the firsts: first apartment, first furniture builds, first house, curtain rod dramas, slightly crooked photo walls, IKEA furniture assemblies, an ambitious whole basement renovation, and now — my daughter’s (the elder) room renovation. It was never the fanciest tool in the toolbox but it always got the job done with grit, grace, and a slightly wobbly handle. It held things together long before I even realized how much I needed them to stay that way.
I never thought I’d get emotional over a hammer, but here I am. It didn’t dawn on me until I was holding the broken handle in my hand how much quiet loyalty it had offered. Always there. Always ready. Never flashy, never fancy — just reliable.
And maybe that’s why it hit so hard. Not just the loss of a tool, but the tiny, unexpected grief that comes when something constant quietly gives out. Like it had been holding part of my history, tucked between bent nails and paint-splattered wood.
I guess when something’s quietly shown up for you over and over again, it earns its spot in the nostalgia hall of fame. Or at least in a blog post eulogy.
Rest easy, old friend. You held it together for a long time — literally and emotionally.
Sometimes, the glimmers come in splinters.
– The Wallflower
Glimmers of The Wallflower 
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