What if we break down our interiors—this overstuffed couch, already 10 years old when mom died and still smelling of her skin cream, this dining room table with the extra leaf we keep just in case of grandchildren. That leather recliner with the prematurely broken back. We could harvest all this wood: red oak, cherry, pine. Cut away the cushions, pop the nails. Pile together their legs, ribs, buckled vertebrae into a kind of cathedral. If we believed enough, could we really make this a tree again? If we watered the bones. Coaxed them back into sapling. Entertained this mad idea of regeneration.