Thinking back, now in the comfort of my own home, I realize how complicated a relationship I've built with 'eucalyptus.' It's one of the first childhood scent memories that I associated with peace and calm, with some vague notion of elevated beauty. A small vial of eucalyptus essence sits beside the diffuser in my living room some ten thousand kilometres away from those plantations. I ruminate also on their more than complicated economics and problematic harvesting practices—practices taken in the warm southern Chinese provinces. Yet, as I write, I'm smiling at the pictures I took of these wondrous forests in a land my ancestors called home. Though these trees weren't even here when my grandfather last walked these grounds, they now stand guard where his parents, aunts and uncles, brothers and sisters, and many other extended relations are buried. These canopies set against the hazy sky are, for me, the image of safe harbour and of rest for family I have never known and never will. On this thought, my mind is tranquil, but not at peace. There is a tenuous sanctity under their canopies that I fear disturbing.

I turn my thoughts now to the small shingled house where my grandaunt lived. Outside the living quarters, everything was exposed to the elements, including the kitchen. There, bees had moved into some cupboards. My grandaunt decided to keep them so that she could gather honey. I wonder if the smoke from the wood fire stove helps to keep the bees relatively docile despite our comings and goings.