It is again, September.
When summer departs, autumn approaches, and the skies above New York, clear of smoke, heat, and haze, are so often so perfectly blue.
And I am reminded of the first four lines of "Try to Remember," which has always been bittersweet, even poignant.
But never more so than after that obscenely beautiful Tuesday morning 20 years ago.
"Try to remember
the kind of September
when life was slow
and oh so mellow..." —Jim V., New York
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