I found myself almost uttering these words as we listened to fireworks explode over Binghamton and Vestal and regretted not going to a hill above the city to watch.
It was a perfect, hot 4th of July night and we were walking the dog and trying to catch a glimpse of the action.
The thing is, I hate that phrase. There isn’t always a next year. If COVID taught us anything it’s that there may not even be a next week.
Instead of saying empty cliches then, we walked an extra block in the gunpowder smelling dark, listening to the pops and booms in the distance. I was grateful for the heat, for summer, for one more night like this.