The product of our labors lay before us: the White House replicated in coarse sand, every exacting detail present thanks to Josh’s critical eye.
Theresa and I looked away, not wanting to jinx the next part. I held my breath as Phil prepared the finishing touch. Any wrong impact could send massive internal damage throughout the entire base. If that happened, seventy-seven hours of work would be reduced back to indiscriminate lumps of sand.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw that Phil stood there, behind it, feet planted carefully. In his hand he carried the piece de resistance: the Stars and Stripes. He closed his eyes and stabbed downward in one smooth motion. The damp sand gave way but did not crack. Opening his eyes, Phil looked at his handiwork, smiled, and stepped back.
The sun broke through the daily gray and a ray of morning made the newly placed flag shine like a tiny sun.
Words escaped my lips, “O beautiful, for spacious skies…”
Three unsteady voices joined mine in the perfect finishing touch.