A Solid Handle

I stepped deeper into the dim shed. On the lower wooden shelf, an old wooden-handled screwdriver lay rolling loosely in a groove. I paused, tilting my head. I gripped the thick, grooved timber handle with both hands and gave it a slow tug. The dark steel shaft scraped across the dusty plank until it nestled firmly against a box of iron nails. Quiet now. Motionless. I pressed my palm against the cool metal ferrule to feel its solid resting weight, then leaned back against the shelf leg.