I was a forester for forty-four years, which means I spent more time with trees than I did with people, and I never regretted a single day of it. My forest was in the northern part of the state, a stretch of land that had been logged and burned and logged again since before anyone was keeping track, a place that had been stripped down to nothing and left to grow back on its own. I came there when I was twenty-two, fresh out of forestry school, full of the kind of arrogance that comes from being told you know something and the kind of fear that comes from knowing you don’t know anything at all. The forest was a mess, the way forests are when they’ve been used and abandoned, when the people who took from them never gave anything back. The soil was thin, the trees were stunted, the streams were choked with silt, and the only things growing were the kind of scrub that takes over when the land is too tired to grow anything else. I looked at it, this place that had been dying for a hundred years, and I saw what it could be. I saw the trees that had been here before the loggers came, the ones that had stood for centuries, the ones that had been cut down and hauled away and turned into houses and barns and the things that people build when they’re trying to make something that will last. I saw the forest that was waiting to come back, the one that had been here for ten thousand years, the one that would be here for ten thousand more if someone was there to help it find its way.

I planted the first trees in the spring of my twenty-third year. They were seedlings, small enough to fit in my hand, the kind of things that look like they’ll never make it, the kind of things that you put in the ground and hope and wait and wonder if you’re wasting your time. I planted them the way I’d been taught, with the roots spread, the soil packed, the water given, the hope held. I planted them in the places where the old trees had been, the places where the stumps were still there, the places where the roots were still in the ground, waiting for something to grow. I planted them and I waited. I waited through the spring, through the summer, through the fall, through the winter when the snow covered them and I wondered if they were dead, if they’d ever come back, if I’d spent my life doing something that would never grow. They came back in the spring, the way things come back when they’ve been waiting for the right time, when the soil is ready, when the light is right, when the thing that’s been planted finally decides to reach for the sun. I saw them, those first trees, the ones I’d planted when I was young and didn’t know what I was doing, and I knew that I’d found the thing I was meant to do.

I planted trees for forty-four years. I planted them in the places where the old forest had been, in the places where the streams had run clear, in the places where the soil was thin and the light was strong and the trees would grow if someone was there to put them in the ground. I planted them in the rain, in the snow, in the heat of summer when the ground was hard and the water was scarce and the only thing that kept me going was the thought of the forest that would be here when I was gone. I planted them alone, the way you plant things when you’re doing something that doesn’t require anyone else, when the thing you’re doing is between you and the ground and the trees that are waiting to be born. I was good at it, maybe even great, and the forest came back the way forests come back when you give them time, when you give them space, when you give them the chance to be what they were meant to be. The trees grew, the way trees grow when they’re planted in the right place, when the soil is good, when the water is clean, when the light is strong enough to reach them. The streams cleared, the way streams clear when the roots hold the soil, when the silt settles, when the water runs the way it ran a hundred years ago, before the loggers came, before the forest was cut down, before the land was left to die. The animals came back, the way animals come back when there’s a place for them, when the trees are tall enough to nest in, when the understory is thick enough to hide in, when the forest is the way it was before anyone started taking things away.

I lived in a cabin I built myself, with logs from the forest, with a roof that leaked and a stove that smoked and a porch where I sat at the end of every day and watched the light change over the trees I’d planted. I was alone, the way I’d been alone for most of my life, but I didn’t mind. I had the forest, the trees, the sense that I was doing something that mattered, that I was putting something back that had been taken, that I was making something that would outlast me by a hundred years, by a thousand years, by the time it takes for a tree to grow from a seedling into something that can hold the sky. I never married. I never had children. I had the forest, and that was enough. The forest was my family, the trees were my children, the streams were the veins that ran through everything and carried everything and kept everything alive. I knew every tree I’d planted, the ones that were strong, the ones that were weak, the ones that had been struck by lightning, the ones that had been chewed by beavers, the ones that had grown straight and tall and true, the ones that would be here when I was gone, standing where I’d put them, holding the soil, holding the water, holding the sky.

I was sixty-six years old when I realized that I’d planted my last tree. It wasn’t a decision—it was the kind of realization that comes when your body tells you something your mind doesn’t want to hear. My knees were gone, the way knees go when you’ve spent your life walking on ground that was never flat, when you’ve carried seedlings up hills that were too steep, when you’ve knelt in the dirt a thousand times, a hundred thousand times, to put a tree in the ground. I couldn’t carry the bags anymore. I couldn’t dig the holes. I couldn’t kneel the way I used to kneel, couldn’t stand the way I used to stand, couldn’t walk the miles I used to walk, through the forest I’d planted, the one that was tall now, the one that was thick, the one that was the thing I’d spent my life making. I sat on the porch of the cabin I’d built, the one with the roof that still leaked, the one with the stove that still smoked, the one where I’d sat for forty-four years, watching the forest grow. I looked at the trees I’d planted, the ones that were a hundred feet tall now, the ones that had been seedlings when I was young, the ones that were old enough to have their own seedlings, the ones that were making a forest that would be here when I was gone. I looked at them, and I knew that I was done. I’d planted my last tree. I’d done what I came to do. The forest was back. The forest was here. The forest would be here when I wasn’t.

The money was a problem. The forest service had paid enough to live on, but not enough to save, and the cabin was old, and the roof was leaking, and the stove was smoking, and the only thing I had was the forest I’d planted, the one that wasn’t mine, the one that belonged to the land, to the animals, to the people who would come after me, to the trees themselves. I was sitting on the porch one night, the forest dark around me, the stars coming out the way they come out when there’s no light for a hundred miles, when I opened my laptop because I didn’t know what else to do. I’d never been one for the internet—my life had been in the forest, in the trees, in the ground where I’d planted them. But that night, with the roof leaking and the stove smoking and the only thing I had being the forest I’d planted, I found myself looking at something I’d never looked at before. I’d seen the ads, the same ads everyone sees, but I’d never clicked. I was a forester, a man who’d spent his life trusting that the things you plant will grow, that the things you put in the ground will come back, that the forest will be there when you’re gone if you just give it enough time. But that night, with the forest dark around me and the stars coming out and the only thing I wanted being the cabin I’d built, the one that was falling down around me, I clicked. I found myself on a site that looked cleaner than I’d expected, less like the flashing neon thing I’d imagined and more like a place that was waiting for me to arrive. I stared at the Vavada screen for a long time, my fingers on the keyboard, my heart beating in a rhythm I hadn’t felt in years. I deposited fifty dollars, which was what I’d budgeted for food that week, and I told myself this was the last stupid thing I’d do, the last desperate act of a man who’d spent his life planting trees and was finally, finally ready to see what else the world had to offer.

I didn’t know what I was doing. I’d never gambled before, not in casinos, not on cards, not on anything that wasn’t the sure bet of a seed that would sprout, a tree that would grow, a forest that would come back if you gave it enough time. I found a game that looked simple, something with a classic feel, three reels and a few lines, nothing that required me to learn a new language or understand a new world. I played the first spin and lost. The second spin, lost. The third spin, lost. I watched the balance tick down from fifty to forty to thirty, and I felt the familiar weight of things not working, the same weight I’d been carrying since I planted my last tree, the same weight that had settled into my chest the day I looked at the forest and knew I was done. I was about to close the browser, to go back to the porch, to go back to the trees, when the screen did something I wasn’t expecting. The reels kept spinning, longer than they should have, and then they stopped in a configuration that made the screen go quiet, the little symbols lining up in a way that seemed almost deliberate, like the moment when a seed finally breaks through the soil, when the thing that’s been waiting for so long finally reaches for the sun.

The numbers started climbing. Thirty dollars became a hundred. A hundred became five hundred. Five hundred became two thousand. I sat on the porch, the forest dark around me, the stars coming out, and I watched the numbers climb like they were telling me a story I’d been waiting my whole life to hear. Two thousand became five thousand. Five thousand became ten thousand. I stopped breathing. I stopped thinking. I just watched, my whole world narrowed to the screen in front of me, the numbers that kept climbing, the impossible arithmetic of a night that was supposed to be just like every other night. Ten thousand became twenty-five thousand. Twenty-five thousand became fifty thousand. The screen stopped at fifty-two thousand, eight hundred dollars. I stared at the number for so long that my laptop screen dimmed and then went dark. I tapped the spacebar, and there it was, still there, fifty-two thousand dollars, more money than I’d ever had at one time in my entire life. I sat on the porch, the forest dark around me, and I felt something crack open. Not the bad kind of crack, not the kind that breaks you. The kind that lets the light in, the kind that lets you breathe again after you’ve been holding your breath for so long you’d forgotten what it felt like to let go.

I tried to withdraw, and the site froze. I tried again. Nothing. I refreshed the page, and the screen went blank. I felt the panic rising, the old familiar despair, the voice that said this is what happens, this is what always happens, you don’t get to have the thing you want, you’re the forester who planted his last tree, that’s who you are, that’s all you’ll ever be. I was about to give up, to close the laptop and go back to the trees, when I remembered something I’d seen on the site’s help page. I searched around, my fingers shaking, my heart pounding, and I found a Vavada mirror that looked different, that felt more stable, that loaded in seconds. I logged in, and the money was there. The withdrawal went through on the first try. I stared at the confirmation screen, my hands shaking, my eyes burning, and I let out a sound that was half laugh and half something I didn’t have a name for. I sat on the porch for a long time, the forest dark around me, the stars coming out, and I let myself feel something I hadn’t let myself feel in forty-four years. I let myself feel like maybe, just maybe, I could fix the cabin. I could stay. I didn’t have to leave the forest I’d planted. I could be here, in the place I’d spent my life making, for the time I had left.

I used the money to fix the cabin, the one I’d built when I was young, the one with the roof that leaked and the stove that smoked, the one that was falling down around me. I fixed the roof, the walls, the porch where I’d sat for forty-four years, watching the forest grow. I bought a new stove, one that didn’t smoke, one that would keep me warm in the winters that were coming, the ones that would be colder now that I was older, now that my knees were gone, now that I couldn’t cut wood the way I used to cut it. I fixed the things that needed fixing, the things I’d been meaning to fix for years, the things I’d put off because the forest was always more important, because the trees needed me, because the planting had to be done, because the forest wouldn’t wait. But now the forest was done. The trees were planted. The forest was back. And I was here, in the cabin I’d built, in the place I’d spent my life making, with the time I had left to be in it.

I don’t gamble anymore. I don’t need to. I got what I came for, and it wasn’t the fifty-two thousand dollars, although that was part of it. It was the cabin, the roof, the stove, the porch where I sit now, watching the forest I planted. I’m seventy years old. My knees are gone, my hands are stiff, my back is bent from forty-four years of putting trees in the ground. But I’m here. I’m in the cabin I built, in the forest I planted, in the place I was born to be. I walk in the forest sometimes, on the paths I made, between the trees I planted, past the streams I cleared, through the places that were bare when I came here, that were nothing but stumps and silt and the memory of what had been. Now they’re tall. Now they’re thick. Now they’re the forest I saw when I was young, when I came here with nothing but a bag of seedlings and a hope that the thing I was trying to do would work. It worked. The forest grew. The trees are a hundred feet tall. The streams are clear. The animals are back. The things I planted are standing where I put them, holding the soil, holding the water, holding the sky. I think about the Vavada mirror, the door that opened when I didn’t know where else to go, the chance to stay in the place I’d spent my life making. I took that chance. I fixed the cabin. I stayed. And now I’m here, on the porch, watching the light change over the trees I planted, the ones that will be here when I’m gone, the ones that will be here for a hundred years, for a thousand years, for the time it takes for a forest to be what it was before anyone started taking things away. That’s the forest. That’s the only forest that matters. That’s the one I’ll leave behind.