For some reason, I have always liked birch trees. When I was a young girl, my dad made a hanging swing from a birch tree branch for my brother and I at our childhood home.
It is easy to remember because of a picture of me on that swing in that yard.
One of my favorite pastimes as a kid was swinging—the feeling that my legs could carry me higher each time.
Stopping was another matter. At times, I would go so high that I felt a little scared, unsure if I could get off as quickly as I wanted. When I got close enough to the ground, I would jump.
About forty-five years later, walking along a trail in my Northern Ontario community, I notice many birch trees grow here. My spouse told me the birch trees along the driveway at camp were planted by his dad.
Another silver birch on the property caught my attention.
The bark is pale and bright against everything around it, and the tree stands taller than the rest.
It has been there all along.
I just see it differently now.
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