I have an old copy of A Swinger of Birches: Poems of Robert Frost for Young People.
Before Felix was born, I filled the bookshelf my father built for me when I was a child with all of my childhood books. Lovingly arranged with the Sandra Boynton board books I got at my baby shower and Guess How Much I Love You are my copies of The Dark Is Rising and A Wrinkle in Time. Miss Rumphius, Bread and Jam for Frances. A Swinger of Birches.
So, every now and again, from between his many favorite stories, he pulls out a memory, pages slightly yellowed and musty with age.
Tonight for a third time he pulled it out. I opened it to Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening. He said, “No, Mama. I want the Birches one.”
No, Mama. I want the Birches one.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.