The whole town showed up at the river mouth with their axes. The color of piss stood the yellow, yellow dock where the river carved around its pilings and spray misted its timber. This very, very dock marked its spot on the town’s culture and stained deeply. Celebrated, perhaps not, but remembered, certainly.

            “Cut it down!” the mob shouted. “Destroy it!”

            The first axe sliced into the dock, but the deafening crack of a gunshot halted the rest. Half the mob fled and half stayed and looked at an old man as he lowered his pistol from the sky. A frayed captain’s hat perched atop a monster beard. He cleared his throat with a harsh cough and scuffed black mucus into the dirt.

            “I have a story,” the old captain said.

            “No one cares about your stupid story, old man,” the mob said.

            “I care,” a small girl claimed. A circle formed around her as if these words were a disease. “I have always cared.”

            “You have the most to lose,” the old captain said to the young face, the young hope. Ignorance as sweet as candy. “The sea…” he went on. “The sea is the livelihood of the town and this dock along with all other docks help us cross into that haven. This yellow, yellow dock is the jewel of them all and please, please I ask for mercy here just once.”

            “You have mine,” said the small girl but the mob had nothing for him.

            “My crew,” the old captain went on, “built this yellow, yellow dock fifty years ago to this day and it has operated as a gateway for the town and its people into something much bigger than ourselves. Something we can all share.”

            The mob put down their axes and went back to their cars but returned with hammers. Thirsty, thirsty claws of these old-time hammers assaulted nails until piece by piece the dock was methodically disassembled as if some torture for the old captain to bear witness.

            He looked on helplessly as his passionate words died alone in the dirt. Not a soul cared save one small girl, but what could she do? They embraced and watched the sunset with tears as the last pieces of the yellow, yellow dock were ripped away and taken off.

            “I want to learn more about your crew,” she said and he smiled.

            “We were family,” he began but a glimmer of light on the bank hinted at what was left behind and nearly forgotten. The old captain stood up. “We were one.”

            He walked over to this curious glimmer and picked up a single wooden plank. The only surviving piece of the yellow, yellow dock.

            “This,” he said laughing, “is me.”

            She frowned. “It was you.”

            He considered this while gazing hard at the plank the color of piss. She has a wisdom far beyond her years and he tossed that yellow, yellow plank as far into the river as his tired bones could manage. The splash was insignificant.

            “What are you doing?” she asked.

            “We bury our dead in the sea, my love.”

            They watched it float away in the twilight silence until headlights from many, many cars flashed across the horizon. The mob returned, but not with their shouts and chants. No cursing or demeaning. No destroying or erasing.

            Something had happened.

            In their hands were not yellow, yellow planks but sanded, repainted planks. Each had its own unique design and coloring fusion that carried a warmth along the windy riverbank. The mob returned with the same bloodthirsty hammers but fresh nails too and the most beautiful scene befell the old captain and the small girl. They held hands and watched the construction with love filling their hearts so big they might explode.

            The no longer yellow, yellow dock was almost rebuilt save one plank. The mob looked at the old captain and he felt ashamed. His heart did not explode but deflated into a thing not entirely recognized until a young boy pushed through the mob holding in his hands that yellow, yellow plank. “Sir?” the boy said.

            The old captain reached out an unbelieving hand at this savior in common clothes. “Thank you,” he said and this handshake warmed into a hug. “Thank you dearly, my boy.”

            “Got snagged downriver, sir,” the boy said. “Right at the mouth.”

            The old captain stepped onto the dock with the plank, a hammer, and a pocket of nails, of answers. He approached the empty, empty spot with heavy boots and a heart refilling with an old familiar glow for the night and all the nights after. He placed this yellow, yellow plank and nailed it into the crossbeams. History never forgotten and always a part of the future.

            Night had passed and the sun came again while the mob and the captain and the girl all watched in unison as the river carved around its pilings and spray misted its timber. The small girl had more to say.

            “I love—”

            The water level of the river began to lower. She stepped forward as the bank widened and the river drained. The new dock stood lanky and awkward on the dried bank, its sole purpose seized and without retaliation. A thing so beautiful it could never be allowed to last. She finished her sentence but no one heard, not even the captain.

            “You…”

            A suited man studied the mob with something that can’t quite be described as a smile. He straightened his tie when the mob looked back. His expression grew. “Didn’t you hear?” he said, “They built a big, big dam!”