All this time since Hurricane Mathew blew through here destroying my little snow globe of peace, I've been waiting for the dock to be finished. Dad hired a few guys to set the frame straight again and then Dad and I and a homeless man named Spencer spent the last few months lining up and screwing down boards. Spencer cut a huge pile of lumber into hundreds of three foot long planks. Dad lined those boards up, "Straight as an arrow!" he'd mumble, and I'd screw them into place with an machine-gun drill. Each day as we put more boards into place, I'd get a few feet closer to the end of the dock. It teased and tormented me, being so close and so far. In the final month of the dock work, Spencer and I left Dad to the job and while I schemed a grand reopening complete with a ribbon cutting ceremony and tiny quiches, Dad just walked into the house one day and said, "Dock's done." and then he plopped down into his chair.
So that's really my point here. The dock's done.
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