On a warm morning in late August 2001, I leaned against tower one’s base–the glass and steel stretched so incredibly high–and looked upwards into an endless blue sea. An African dance squad treated the morning crowd to a free exhibition. It smelled like adrenaline, exhaust and steam. The Wife suggested taking a tour to the sky deck. The line reached down the stairs and wound around most the Byzantine lobby. Put off by the crowds, I said something like, “We’ll be back in two weeks after school starts. It’ll be better. There’ll be less people then.”

A statement that rings in my ears, it’s the biggest reason I resumed writing after falling away from the habit for nearly six years. Never know what the next day might bring, and how many more there might be.

Never forget.