Wood

There is yellow wood, which once was white; there is pale pink wood, that once was red like meat. There is soft, pliant wood with hidden strength and hard, heavy brutal wood which wears its armour with pride.

I used to think of wood as teak, rosewood, meranti, chengal, jelutong, balsa. As I aged, I found oak and ash and thorn; I dreamt of apple and willow, of larch and spruce and pine. I began to live in cypress, with fir and cherry, redwood and maple.

There are more woods than the world can hold, it seems. And yet, the woods are dying as the trees are going. The sapwood of the world is drying out; the heartwood of the world has rotted away.

If you have enough wood, you can make a bundle. Even the wormiest, most brittle, fragile, flammable twigs can bear weight for a time when bundled. But when the heat is on, you will see the thin smoke of water vapour and dust rise from the wood. You will see it blacken as it changes from cellulose to the skeleton thereof.

And then, it will be heat, and light, and the memory of wood. In the morning, cold and grey residues remain to remind one of the body of a tree.

Where I used to work, a tree was cut into. We found the heartwood long gone, but the sapwood acted as if nothing had changed. The outer rings held up the dead tree for a while, but over the weeks, it became clear that the rotten tree had to be removed, and all its termite-infested branches. We were afraid the infestation would spread.

When it was done, we promised ourselves that never would we use such maladapted wood again. But you never know. Sometimes, a tree can look solid from the outside, and even bear good fruit. Yet, if you build your house around it, great might be the ruin of it in latter days.