As a child, I was bonkers for Christmas. The entire month of

Host: The snow fell like memory, slow and silent, settling over the streetlights until the world seemed wrapped in a soft white hush. The city was half-asleep, but the windows of a small apartment above the bookstore still glowed with amber light.

Inside, Jack and Jeeny sat across from each other at a cluttered wooden table, two cups of hot chocolate steaming between them. The radiator hummed, casting its gentle warmth, while a faint melody from an old radio — a Christmas song — played somewhere in the background.

Jack leaned back, arms crossed, watching the snow pile against the windowpane. Jeeny was smiling, her eyes lit by a childlike spark that seemed to defy the cold outside.

Jeeny: “You know what Rosecrans Baldwin said? ‘As a child, I was bonkers for Christmas. The entire month of December, I couldn’t sleep at night from anticipation.’ I love that.”

Jack: “You would. Anticipation, magic, snowflakes — all your favorite delusions in one sentence.”

Jeeny: “Not delusions, Jack — memories. There’s a difference.”

Jack: “Same thing when you’re grown. You just rename them to feel better.”

Host: The clock ticked, steady and slow, while outside, a car passed, its tires hissing through the snow. The room glowed in shades of amber and white, the contrast between youth and cynicism made visible in the light between their faces.

Jeeny: “You know what your problem is? You’ve forgotten how to be bonkers about anything.”

Jack: “Because being bonkers doesn’t pay the bills, Jeeny. Kids can afford to believe in magic. Adults pay for the electricity that keeps the tree lights on.”

Jeeny: “But maybe that’s the tragedy — we spend our lives fixing what childhood never thought was broken. You call it maturity, but maybe it’s just forgetting how to wonder.”

Jack: “No. It’s learning how to survive. You can’t live your life waiting for Santa to fix the world.”

Jeeny: “And yet the world would be a lot warmer if more people still waited for something good.”

Host: Her voice was quiet, but it carried, filling the room with a gentle weight — like the snow that fell outside, layer by layer, softening everything it touched.

Jack: “When I was a kid, I used to wait by the window for my dad to come home on Christmas Eve. He’d work late every year, and I’d stay awake just to see his car lights on the street. Sometimes they never came. You learn fast what anticipation really means — it’s just hope with a timer.”

Jeeny: “That’s not hope’s fault, Jack. That’s life’s imperfection. But you still waited, didn’t you? You still believed he might come. That’s what matters.”

Jack: “No, that’s what hurts. Hope is a drug, and December is when everyone overdoses.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what saves us, too. That month, when the world still pretends to be kind. When even the tired, the bitter, the broken people hang lights and try again.”

Host: The radiator hissed, a sound like a sigh, and the window fogged as the heat rose. Jack’s eyes shifted, softening, though his jaw still held its stubbornness.

Jack: “You really believe that, don’t you? That a month can redeem the rest of the year?”

Jeeny: “Not redeem, Jack. Remind. It’s a pause — a collective heartbeat when the world slows** down** long enough to feel something again.”

Jack: “You mean nostalgia.”

Jeeny: “No. I mean gratitude. Wonder. The tiny, ridiculous joy of believing something good might happen, even if it never does.”

Jack: “You’re romanticizing insomnia and sugar highs.”

Jeeny: “And you’re turning a holiday into a ledger, like you do with everything else.”

Host: The air tightened, but not with anger — with the weight of truths neither could fully dismiss. The radio crackled, playing an old carol, and for a moment, their silence blended with the music, the melody of belief and doubt sharing the same space.

Jeeny: “When I was eight, I wrote a letter to Santa asking not for toys, but for my parents to stop fighting. The next morning, they were smiling, laughing, making pancakes. I thought I’d done it. I thought magic was real.”

Jack: “And when did you stop?”

Jeeny: “When I realized that maybe it still was — just not in the way I expected. Maybe the magic wasn’t in Santa, but in the hope that made me write the letter.”

Jack: “So belief is the miracle?”

Jeeny: “No. The miracle is that we keep believing, even after the disappointment.”

Host: The snow outside thickened, falling faster now, covering the city in silence. The lamplight glowed through it, soft, gold, sacred. Jack looked out the window, his reflection blurred by condensation, as though the past and present were trading faces.

Jack: “You know, I think I envy that version of you — the kid who couldn’t sleep because she was too excited about tomorrow.”

Jeeny: “You can be her again, Jack. The bonkers part isn’t just for kids. It’s for anyone who still dares to expect joy.”

Jack: “Joy’s fragile. You blink, it’s gone.”

Jeeny: “Then don’t blink.”

Host: Her words were simple, but they hung in the room like a prayer. Jack exhaled, his breath fogging the window, and for the first time, he smiled — small, quiet, real.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what Baldwin was really saying — that anticipation itself is the gift. The restlessness, the impatience, the wonder — that’s what makes us feel alive.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The waiting is the magic. Once you get what you’re waiting for, it’s just paper and wrapping. But the night before — that’s where faith lives.”

Jack: “So maybe Christmas isn’t a holiday. It’s a state of mind.”

Jeeny: “A reminder that hope, no matter how childish, still fits inside a grown heart.”

Host: The radio shifted to a softer tune, a piano instrumental that seemed to echo their quiet epiphany. The snow kept falling, covering the street, hiding the flaws of the world beneath a temporary perfection.

Jack rose, walked to the window, and watched as a family passed below — a child laughing, dragging a sled, her father carrying a bag of gifts.

He turned back to Jeeny.

Jack: “You know… maybe I’ll buy a tree tomorrow.”

Jeeny: “A real one?”

Jack: “Yeah. One that smells like pine and makes a mess.”

Jeeny: “Now that’s the spirit.”

Host: They laughed, and the room filled with a brightness no lamp could create. The snow outside softened, glowed, settled.

And for that moment, it was December again — the pure, bonkers, beautiful kind of December — when the heart, once cynical, dares to believe again.

Because anticipation, as Rosecrans Baldwin once said, is not just about waiting for Christmas —
it’s about remembering that we were once capable of wonder,
and that we still can be,
if we just let the light in.