A tree that keeps growing after it becomes a table

I'm planing down a slab of walnut and every pass reveals a fresh ring, like the wood is still counting years I can't see. The grain shifts under my hands, warmer than it should be, and I realize I'm not making a table — I'm just uncovering the tree it always wanted to be. I wake up with sawdust in my hair and the smell of fresh-cut timber in my nose.