Christmas carols always brought tears to my eyes. I also cry at

Host: The snow fell in slow, deliberate flakes, drifting like forgotten memories through the streetlights of December. The city was half-asleep — its noise softened under the weight of the season, its neon signs dimmed by frost. From the window of a small bar, yellow light spilled out into the cold, where the faint sound of laughter mixed with the muffled bells of a Salvation Army volunteer outside.

Inside, the warmth hit like a sigh. The air smelled of whiskey, pine, and the faint sweetness of old tinsel. The jukebox in the corner played a slightly off-key version of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.”

Jack sat at the bar, his hands wrapped around a half-empty glass. His eyes, grey and tired, reflected the string of colored lights above the mirror. Jeeny slid onto the stool beside him, cheeks flushed from the cold, snow still melting in her hair.

For a moment, they didn’t speak. The song filled the silence between them.

Jeeny: (smiling sadly) “Ethel Merman once said, ‘Christmas carols always brought tears to my eyes. I also cry at weddings. I should have cried at a couple of my own.’”
She looked at the reflection of the lights in the bar mirror. “That’s funny, isn’t it? How laughter can hold hands with heartbreak.”

Jack: (dryly) “It’s only funny if you survive it.”

Host: His voice was low, gravelly — the kind that had seen too many winters and still didn’t trust spring to come back.

Jeeny: “You sound like a man who’s cried at the wrong times too.”

Jack: “No. I’m the man who forgot how.”

Jeeny: “That’s worse.”

Jack: “It’s safer.”

Jeeny: “So’s silence. But neither keeps you warm.”

Host: The bartender refilled their glasses, the sound of liquid hitting glass blending softly with the melody from the jukebox. A couple in the back corner laughed too loudly — the kind of laughter that comes from trying to forget.

Jack: “You know, Ethel had a point. We cry for other people’s joy because it reminds us how far we’ve drifted from our own.”

Jeeny: “Or because deep down, we still believe in it. Tears are proof that hope isn’t dead yet.”

Jack: “Hope’s overrated. It’s the hangover after sentimentality.”

Jeeny: “Then why do you come here every Christmas Eve?”

Jack: (smirking) “For the sentimentality.”

Jeeny: (grinning) “Exactly.”

Host: The fireplace in the corner flickered weakly, its glow trembling across the bottles lined on the shelves. Outside, snow piled against the window, muting the world into soft oblivion.

Jeeny: “You know, people like to mock the old songs — call them cheesy, outdated. But Christmas carols aren’t about religion or ritual. They’re about memory.”

Jack: “Memory hurts.”

Jeeny: “So does forgetting.”

Jack: “You think that’s why she cried? Because carols made her remember who she was?”

Jeeny: “No. Because they reminded her who she wanted to be. The songs reach for innocence — and innocence is the only thing that makes us ache.”

Jack: (quietly) “And weddings?”

Jeeny: (shrugging) “They reach for the same thing. A promise we all make knowing full well we’re going to break it.”

Jack: “You make it sound hopeless.”

Jeeny: “No. I make it sound human.”

Host: The song on the jukebox changed — “I’ll Be Seeing You” now, soft and slow, a melody steeped in ghosts. A couple near the door swayed to it, eyes closed, foreheads touching.

Jack: “You ever notice how music digs where words can’t?”

Jeeny: “Of course. That’s why people cry at songs. A note can sneak past your defenses before a sentence can finish forming.”

Jack: “So that’s what Ethel meant — the songs did the crying for her.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Or maybe she was just honest enough to admit that laughter and loss live in the same room.”

Jack: “And we keep renting it year after year.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s called being alive.”

Host: The light from the bar shimmered against the snow outside, turning every flake into something golden and fleeting. Jack took another sip, then set the glass down carefully — as if afraid it might break under the weight of his thoughts.

Jack: “You know, I once thought tears were weakness. Then I realized they’re just emotion escaping before it burns through you.”

Jeeny: “That’s beautiful.”

Jack: (shaking his head) “It’s anatomy. The body’s way of cooling the soul.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe Ethel was right to cry at weddings. It’s the moment before hope turns into history.”

Jack: “You make marriage sound like a funeral.”

Jeeny: “No — like a song. The kind you can’t stop humming even when it hurts.”

Host: The fire crackled again, spitting sparks. The couple by the door left, leaving behind the echo of their laughter. The bartender wiped down the counter, humming along with the tune.

Jeeny: “You ever wish you could cry again, Jack?”

Jack: “Sometimes. But I think if I started, I wouldn’t stop.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s exactly what you need — to let the river flood once before the spring can come.”

Jack: “You really think tears can fix anything?”

Jeeny: “Not fix. Clean.”

Jack: “Clean what?”

Jeeny: “The parts of us we forgot were human.”

Host: The clock above the bar ticked toward midnight. The world outside was wrapped in white. Somewhere down the street, someone started singing “Silent Night” — soft, uncertain, but earnest. The sound drifted through the cracks in the door, filling the bar like perfume.

Jack: (closing his eyes) “That song always gets me. My mother used to hum it when she cooked.”

Jeeny: (smiling softly) “See? You still have music stitched into your memory.”

Jack: “Yeah. Along with everything I’ve lost.”

Jeeny: “Then sing with it, not against it.”

Jack: “I don’t sing anymore.”

Jeeny: “You just did — without realizing.”

Host: The camera would rise slowly — capturing the bar bathed in its amber light, the two of them sitting in companionable silence, snow still falling outside. The music lingered, soft and imperfect, echoing through the empty air.

Jeeny leaned her head against her hand, eyes reflecting both candlelight and melancholy.

Jeeny: “Ethel Merman wasn’t just talking about tears. She was talking about tenderness — the kind that survives even after the performance ends.”

Jack: (quietly) “And maybe regret.”

Jeeny: “Regret’s just love that missed its timing.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “Then maybe that’s what Christmas is — love trying again.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The final shot would linger on their reflections in the bar mirror — two faces lit by the glow of the fire, framed by bottles, surrounded by the echoes of laughter, carols, and time.

Outside, the snow fell in endless silence.

And as the scene faded, Ethel Merman’s bittersweet words lingered — half joke, half confession, all truth:

We cry not because we are weak,
but because we remember —
how beauty and sorrow
sing in the same key.

A carol, a wedding, a moment of stillness —
each a note from the same song,
reminding us that joy and grief
are never strangers,
only old lovers,
meeting again
under the quiet snow.