“Good morning yesterday. You wake up and time has slipped away. And suddenly it’s hard to find the memories you left behind. Remember. Do you remember?” — Paul Anka

No racing at Aqueduct on Monday. Or ever again. Born Sept. 27, 1894, the racetrack in South Ozone Park, Queens, will run its last horse race Sunday.

Not many race fans will be reaching for the Kleenex box when the thoroughbreds load the starting gate for the ultimate nightcap. OK, maybe after the race if their 32-1 shot loses by a nose. But for some, like this aging handicapper, it will mark the end of a lifetime of memories.

If you asked 100 fans what their favorite racetrack is, you may hear two or three tell you Aqueduct. And you would look at them as if they hadn’t quite heard the question. Saratoga is grand hats. Aqueduct is backward baseball caps worn by fans trying to figure out if the speed will hold in the late double.

Santa Anita’s backdrop? The scenic San Gabriel Mountains. The Big A? Mounds of dirt left by construction crews. Churchill Downs? Mint juleps. Aqueduct? Beer. Cold if you wait until Race 3. Gulfstream Park has flamingos. Railbirds rule at the Big A.

Three things you can count on: death, taxes and three or four maiden claiming races on every card. But Aqueduct is where Secretariat made his career debut — a loss on July 4, 1972. It’s where Seattle Slew won the Wood Memorial before going on to win the Triple Crown. It’s where Pope John Paul II prayed for peace. And where Tony Soprano and his gang prayed for Pie-O-My to win.

I was born in Brooklyn, raised in Queens — 115th Street between Rockaway Boulevard and Sutter Avenue. A furlong from Aqueduct. From our attic, with the help of a pair of binoculars, you could see a part of the main track. From the street, you could hear the crowd roar. We imagined — no, knew — it was for us as we played Wiffle ball in the yard.

Watch the races on Fox Sports? That school you see in the distance? It’s P.S. 100, where I learned to read. That church? O.L.P.H., where I learned to confess. Pan back a bit more. That’s Sofia’s Pizza, formerly the Guys of Vinegar Hill Tavern, where I learned not to mix vodka with rum. We played roller hockey in the parking lot near 114th Street until Big A security chased us. We walked to John Adams High School carrying textbooks and a racing form.

When old enough — well, almost old enough to wager — I would meet my dad, uncles and cousins at the 1/16th pole, first floor. A family affair. The memories are forever and priceless.

I watched my Uncle George bet $500 on the mighty Forego. (Aunt Mary still doesn’t know about that one.) Watched my Uncle Dan run the length of the stretch yelling at Darby Creek Road to get up in the 1978 Wood. They both finished second behind Believe It.

Aqueduct could have been renamed Transylvania Downs when the thick fog set in. When they crossed the wire, my cousin John and I stared at each other, with no clue if we won, lost or if our horse even ran. If one of us hit big, we would make our way over to Don Peppe’s, an Italian restaurant off Lefferts Boulevard that Tony Soprano would have frequented. If not, we would convince each other, “We’ll get them tomorrow.”

We had racing legends in our backyard. Riders like Angel Cordero Jr., Jorge Velazquez and Eddie Maple. I remember that winter when it seemed Steve Cauthen won five or six races a day. And how dozens of angry fans booed a jockey (unheard of today) if they thought they didn’t get a fair ride. Trainers like Allen “The Chief” Jerkens and Frank “Pancho” Martin.

We heard race calls from men blessed with golden pipes. Marshall Cassidy, Chic Anderson, John Imbriale and Dave “Down the stretch they come” Johnson. Later, Tom Durkin brought his story-telling style.

We listened as Harvey Pack laid out his betting strategy for the Early Pick Three on the closed-circuit monitor. When we couldn’t get there, Pack, Frank Wright and Charlsie Cantey were there and we tuned in on Saturday evenings to watch the feature and the finale on Channel 9. But only if the antenna was properly placed. We considered selections from newspaper handicappers like John Piesen, Rick Lang, John Pricci and Russ Harris.

It was a golden age for horse racing. And we soaked it in.

Things change. There are a couple of hundred fans at the Big A now. There were a couple of hundred people who didn’t get a seat there in the ’60s, ’70s and early ’80s. It was special. Exciting. Fun. Our neighborhood loved Aqueduct like the Springs loves Saratoga.

So as the sun sets for the last time behind the tote board and the majority happily say “good riddance,” we say, “Thank you, Aqueduct,” for all the memories. Hope you hit the last race Sunday.

But if you don’t … we’ll get them tomorrow.