Before we took down the tree each year, Dad would always say a

Host: The room glowed with the golden light of late December, the kind that drifts softly through frosted windows, illuminating the quiet ache of memory. The Christmas tree still stood in the corner, its needles drying, its ornaments dulling beneath the fading shimmer of tinsel. Outside, snow fell in slow, deliberate flakes, each one catching the last blush of sunset before melting into silence.

Jack sat on the floor, a half-empty mug of coffee beside him, the aroma mingling with pine and the faint, sweet scent of old cookies left uneaten. Jeeny knelt near the tree, wrapping the delicate glass ornaments in newspaper, her fingers careful, reverent — as though she were holding onto something that wanted to disappear.

The room was quiet, save for the rustle of paper and the low hum of a radio somewhere, playing an old carol in a voice that trembled with nostalgia.

Jeeny: “Catherine Hicks once said, ‘Before we took down the tree each year, Dad would always say a prayer that we would be together the next Christmas. I cling to that prayer, which serves as a reminder that it's important to be grateful in the present for the people you love because, well, you never know.’”

She placed an angel ornament in the box, her voice catching slightly, like something fragile had cracked beneath it.

Jack: “That’s a sweet thought. But a little naïve, don’t you think? Gratitude doesn’t keep people from leaving, Jeeny. Or from dying. It’s just something we tell ourselves so the loss hurts less when it comes.”

Jeeny: “No,” she said softly, not looking at him. “It’s something we tell ourselves so we remember to love while we still can.”

Host: The light flickered against the walls, where faint shadows of the tree’s branches reached like tired arms. Jack leaned back, staring up at the ceiling, his jaw tense, his eyes distant.

Jack: “I used to hate that part — taking the tree down. It always felt like saying goodbye to a lie. The lights, the songs, the fake cheer — then January comes, and everything turns gray again. I guess that’s why people cling to these rituals. They don’t want to face the quiet.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe they’re sacred because they help us face it. That’s what her father’s prayer meant. He wasn’t pretending the next Christmas was guaranteed — he was acknowledging that it wasn’t.”

Host: Jeeny paused, holding a small silver bell in her hand. The sound it made when she tilted it was soft — almost ghostly — like a whisper that had lost its breath.

Jeeny: “You know, my dad used to say something similar. Every Christmas Eve, he’d stand by the window and say, ‘Remember this, because next year, it might be different.’ I never understood why he said that. I thought it was morbid. But now…”

Jack: “Now you know he was right.”

Jeeny: “Now I know he was grateful.”

Host: Jack looked at her then — really looked. The firelight reflected in her eyes, making them seem deeper, like wells that held both grief and grace. The air between them thickened with unspoken things — the kind of silence that carries meaning instead of emptiness.

Jack: “You really think gratitude changes anything? It doesn’t stop time. It doesn’t stop loss. It’s just... words we whisper to make ourselves feel like we have control.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it doesn’t stop time. But it changes how we live in it. Gratitude doesn’t stop the loss, Jack — it sanctifies the moment before it happens.”

Host: The wind pressed gently against the windows, and outside, a car passed slowly through the snow, its headlights diffused into halos by the falling flakes.

Jack: “You talk like life’s a chapel. But tell me, when everything’s falling apart — when you know someone you love might not be here next year — how do you still manage to say thank you?”

Jeeny: “Because that’s when it matters most.”

Jack: “You really believe that?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because gratitude isn’t a feeling, Jack — it’s an act of defiance. It’s saying, ‘You can take the future from me, but you can’t take this moment.’”

Host: The fire crackled, sending a brief shower of sparks up the chimney. Jeeny’s words hung there — warm and aching — before falling into silence.

Jack reached for one of the ornaments, a small wooden star painted gold at the edges. He turned it in his hand, watching the light catch its worn surface.

Jack: “You know… when my mother died, my father refused to take the tree down that year. Said it was bad luck. It stood there until March — the needles brown, the lights burnt out. He just couldn’t do it. I thought he was being foolish. But now…”

Jeeny: “Now you understand what he was holding onto.”

Jack: “Yeah. The prayer. The hope. The illusion that we’d all still be there next Christmas.”

Jeeny: “It wasn’t illusion, Jack. It was love.”

Host: She reached out and touched his hand, just lightly — a brief connection, like a spark bridging two circuits. The room seemed to exhale around them, the air less heavy, the warmth returning to the light.

Jack: “You think she’d want me to pray like that? To ask for another Christmas together?”

Jeeny: “I think she’d want you to thank God for the one you already had.”

Host: Jack’s eyes glistened, but he didn’t look away. He set the star ornament back gently into the box and leaned back against the wall.

Jack: “It’s strange, isn’t it? How we only realize the value of a moment when it becomes a memory.”

Jeeny: “That’s why gratitude is a kind of faith — believing something is sacred before it’s gone.”

Host: The fire dimmed slightly, its light falling across the floor in amber patches. The tree stood there, bare now of ornaments, its branches still faintly green but weary, like an old sentinel waiting for release.

Jack: “You ever think maybe that’s what prayer really is? Not asking for something — just remembering what’s already been given.”

Jeeny: “Yes. That’s all it ever was.”

Host: She picked up the last ornament — a tiny photo frame with a picture of a child inside, faded at the corners. For a moment, she just stared at it, her lips parting slightly as if to speak, but no words came. Then she placed it in the box and closed the lid.

The radio played softly now — Bing Crosby’s voice, low and warm, drifting through the air like a memory wrapped in melody.

Jack: “You know what’s strange? For the first time, I don’t feel like taking the tree down means it’s over. Maybe it’s just another way of saying — we made it this far.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Gratitude is the bridge between what was and what might still be.”

Host: Outside, the snow had stopped, and the world glowed faintly under a sky of pale silver. Jeeny stood, brushed the pine needles from her knees, and smiled at him — small, tired, but true.

Jeeny: “Come on. Let’s put the lights away before the coffee gets cold.”

Jack: “And after that?”

Jeeny: “We say our prayer.”

Host: Jack nodded, standing slowly. Together, they unplugged the lights, and one by one, the bulbs dimmed — gold turning to amber, amber to dusk, dusk to quiet.

The last light went out, but the room was not dark. The fire’s glow lingered on their faces, and somewhere beyond the glass, the first star of the evening appeared.

Jeeny whispered then, almost to herself:

Jeeny: “Thank you for this good life, and for those I love in it. Forgive me if I don’t love it enough.”

Host: Jack’s eyes closed. For a moment, there was only the sound of his breathing and the soft crackle of wood.

And in that quiet — between the ashes of celebration and the pulse of gratitude — they both felt the simple, aching truth of Hicks’ words: that every year, every moment, every breath is a gift borrowed from time, and that love — when noticed, when thanked for — becomes eternal.

Outside, the snow began again — soft, slow, and endless — falling like grace.