Wood-the forts we made, with dad’s help among pines and poplars, the smoke arising from a campfire in autumn, holding a sleepy child in front of a fireplace, a tree in the forest, charred, but still alive.
A fallen tree makes me wonder how large the tree was when I was born, if my grandpa climbed it, maybe planted it. When I see wood, I realize that it may have been here before me and may be here long after me. In all of its’ fragility, wood seems to speak of endurance. The lines within a log upon the ground, they speak of drought, or rainy years, they carry the voice of the creatures who lived when each log was a tree.
I see “my” crows standing in a snag above my house, waiting for me to put out scraps and then calling to their comrades. I see my grandpa hauling in logs for grandma’s woodstove. I stack railway ties to make a wall for my garden. I inhale the fragrance of new wood in a young house, waiting patiently for memories yet to come.
Wood is a diary, an album of our being. I touch it gently, reminded of all the meanings it holds.