House Made of Wood

I love his house -- the heavy mahogany main door, the wooden window panes, the stairways made of narra, the voluptuous mahogany tables. His house has a certain feel to it, a calming, cozy invitation to the world within.

His house smelled of wood, not the old rusty smell from a carpenter's workshop. It smelled of dried varnish, of lemon Pledge and fresh white cloth, it smelled of home. It is not big nor small; the size is just right for a family of five. I imagine specks of dust in places between wood and the marble that is the floor. Light doesn't enter lavishly, even with all the windows opened. Piles of travel magazines compiled in hardbound pieces gather dust on tables, seats, mats. An aging upright piano stood solemnly at one side, waiting for fingers to play with its keys.

His house is a bohemian enclave of sorts. I imagine generations of artists sitting in the living room, band members bringing their guitars and strumming compositions that will never be aired. I see him with his Atenean friends, sitting there, talking endlessly of girls and parties and bars and gadgets. His house an earthy mix of fine wood, steel and eccentricities. I do love his home.

Then I think of the forests of Baler, now denuded and barren, almost a wasteland. Hectares of bald mountains and land eroded by flood. I think of the century-old trees that now starkly lie in the living room of his house, in his room, in every part of his home I fancied and admired. I think of birds and mammals struggling for warmth as this four-cornered place provide him shelter for almost three decades now. I smelled dried bark sap and decay. And nothingness.

I do not love it that much anymore -- his beautiful house made of wood.