May it be long before the people of the United States shall cease

Host: The night sky above Washington, D.C., was a tapestry of smoke and fire, the air trembling with the thunder of distant fireworks. The Potomac River reflected streaks of red, white, and blue — fleeting, glorious illusions dissolving in water. The crowd had long dispersed, leaving behind the scent of gunpowder and burnt sugar, a lonely flag fluttering from a pole near the monument.

Jack and Jeeny stood on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, their silhouettes dark against the faint shimmer of the marble. The echoes of the national anthem still lingered in the humid air, soft as a ghost. Around them, the city exhaled — proud, tired, timeless.

Jeeny: (quietly) “Samuel Freeman Miller once said, ‘May it be long before the people of the United States shall cease to take a deep and pervading interest in the Fourth of July, as the birthday of our national life, or the event which then occurred shall be subordinated to any other of our national history.’”

Jack: (lighting a cigarette, eyes on the sky) “A judge speaking like a poet — that’s rare. But I wonder if we still deserve that kind of reverence.”

Jeeny: “Deserve it or not, the Fourth still means something. It’s not just fireworks and barbecues. It’s a reminder — of the beginning, of what freedom actually cost.”

Jack: “Freedom.” (He exhales.) “That word’s been dragged through more mud than any other. Everyone claims it, few live it.”

Host: The wind shifted, stirring the flag, the faint stars shimmering against a backdrop of fading smoke. The marble beneath their feet glowed faintly from the leftover city light — white stone remembering the labor of hands long gone.

Jeeny: “But isn’t that the challenge of freedom? To redefine it without corrupting it? Every generation thinks the last one didn’t understand liberty enough — and every one believes it’ll do better.”

Jack: “And yet, somehow, we just build new cages. Economic, digital, ideological. Maybe we’ve traded kings for algorithms.”

Jeeny: “You sound like Jefferson with a Twitter handle.”

Jack: (smirking) “And you sound like the last patriot alive.”

Host: The river rippled softly, catching stray sparks from a distant firework that hadn’t quite died. Jeeny stepped forward, looking out over the water, her voice steady but filled with quiet conviction.

Jeeny: “Miller wasn’t talking about fireworks or flags. He was warning us. That we should never let convenience bury remembrance. That history isn’t sacred because it’s old — it’s sacred because it’s costly.”

Jack: “You mean costly like blood?”

Jeeny: “Yes. The kind of cost you can’t repay, only honor.”

Jack: “You think people still honor anything? Half the country treats the Fourth like an excuse for discounts and explosions. The other half debates whether the ideals it celebrates ever existed.”

Jeeny: “That’s because both halves forgot the same truth — independence isn’t a finished story. It’s a daily decision.”

Host: The monument loomed behind them, solemn, immovable — its silence deeper than any anthem. A faint breeze carried the sound of laughter from somewhere distant — a child still chasing a sparkler, its light flickering against the night.

Jack: “You ever wonder what those men — Washington, Adams, Jefferson — would think of this world now? The noise, the division, the endless screens?”

Jeeny: “I think they’d still recognize it. It’s the same fight, just in different armor. Liberty always has enemies — apathy, fear, greed — but it always finds someone willing to stand up again.”

Jack: (glancing at her) “You really believe that, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “I have to. Otherwise, what was the point of their sacrifice?”

Host: The sound of distant drums — maybe from another celebration — rolled faintly through the night, steady as a heartbeat. Jack stared into the smoke-thick sky, where bursts of light still occasionally bloomed and faded, like thoughts half-remembered.

Jack: “Maybe Miller was wrong. Maybe someday, people will stop caring. Not out of betrayal, but exhaustion. Nations get tired too, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “Then it’ll be our fault for letting memory grow old. Patriotism isn’t inherited — it’s taught, protected, renewed. Every generation must fall in love with freedom again, or it dies quietly in routine.”

Jack: “Love and freedom — you make them sound like the same thing.”

Jeeny: (turning toward him) “Aren’t they? Both demand choice. Both require risk. Both break you if you take them for granted.”

Host: Her words carried into the dark like a prayer. The fireworks had stopped now — only the far hum of traffic and cicadas filled the night. The city felt older suddenly, heavier.

Jack: “You know, I used to think patriotism was naive. That it belonged to people who never saw how flawed their country really was.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: (after a pause) “Now I think cynicism’s the coward’s version of love. Easier to mock the dream than to mend it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. True patriotism isn’t blind. It’s bruised — but unbroken.”

Host: The flag overhead shivered again, caught by a stronger gust — its motion illuminated by the last lingering glow from a far-off explosion. Jeeny looked up, her eyes reflecting the stars faintly peeking through the clouds.

Jeeny: “That’s what Miller was really saying — that the Fourth of July isn’t about the past. It’s about the promise. About holding on to the soul of a nation even when it disappoints you.”

Jack: “You make it sound sacred.”

Jeeny: “It is. But not sacred like religion — sacred like memory. Fragile. Precious. Borrowed from the dead, entrusted to the living.”

Host: Silence settled between them, deep and reverent. The marble steps beneath their feet seemed to absorb their words, as if history itself were listening.

Then, slowly, Jack took the cigarette from his mouth, crushed it under his boot, and whispered — not to Jeeny, but to the air, to the echo of ideals still pulsing faintly through the night.

Jack: “Maybe it’s not about loving what the country is. Maybe it’s about loving what it could be.”

Jeeny: (softly) “That’s the truest kind of patriotism there is.”

Host: A faint breeze lifted the flag once more — steady, unbroken, defiant. Its fabric caught the moonlight and fluttered like a heartbeat in the dark.

And there, amid the silence of monuments and memory,
Samuel Freeman Miller’s words found their echo:

That the Fourth of July is not just celebration,
but remembrance.
That freedom, like faith, must be guarded, not assumed.
That the birth of a nation is not a moment in time —
but an oath renewed by every soul that still believes.

Host: The night grew still again.
And as the last traces of smoke drifted over the river,
Jack and Jeeny stood together — two quiet witnesses
to a promise still alive, still imperfect,
still worth keeping.

And above them, in the great hush of the American sky,
the flag kept waving —
not in triumph,
but in endurance.