Dreamed the oak I lost came back as a door

I'm walking the old property and there it is — the big bur oak I lost to wilt, still standing but with a brass doorknob sunk into the bark, warm to the touch. I open it and step into a room made entirely of its own rings, and I know every single year of that tree like a hallway I've walked a hundred times. When I wake up I'm not sad about it, which is the strangest part. Maybe that's what grieving turns into after enough seasons — a house you can visit.