Christmas is the season I use to clock failure in life. It stops

Host: The city wore its winter coat of lights. Every window glowed, every street hummed with the sound of hurried joy — bells, laughter, and the faint jingle of some distant carol half-swallowed by the cold. But inside a small apartment, three floors above a grocery store, the world was quieter.

The fireplace crackled softly, throwing amber shadows against the peeling paint of the walls. An old record played faintly from a scratched speaker — Sinatra’s “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” — its melody trembling like a fragile memory.

Jack sat near the window, the faint reflection of colored lights from outside playing across his face. A half-empty glass of whiskey rested beside him, untouched for an hour. Jeeny sat on the couch, legs curled beneath her, a wool blanket over her knees. Between them, a small Christmas tree, crooked and bare in patches, blinked with uncertain pride.

Host: The air held a stillness that wasn’t peace — it was the kind of stillness that comes after too many words, too many years.

Jeeny: “You know, Padgett Powell once said, ‘Christmas is the season I use to clock failure in life. It stops time, as it were, on the year — where you are in it, where you are in your travail unto the grave.’”

Jack: (chuckles, low and bitter) “That’s one way to kill the holiday spirit.”

Jeeny: “Maybe he was just being honest. Maybe Christmas isn’t joy for everyone. Maybe it’s a mirror.”

Jack: “Or a magnifying glass. Showing everything you’d rather not see.”

Host: Outside, the wind lifted a swirl of snow, sending it in brief, luminous spirals past the glass. Somewhere below, a car backfired, a dog barked, and life went on — unbothered by philosophy.

Jeeny: “Do you ever feel that? The stillness? Like the year pauses just long enough to ask what you’ve actually done with it?”

Jack: “Every damn year. I measure it in disappointments — deals that fell apart, calls I didn’t return, things I meant to fix but didn’t. Christmas feels like a clock that mocks you — ticking softly, whispering, you’re still here, but not much further.”

Host: The flames in the fireplace flickered higher for a moment, as though they were eavesdropping on confessions.

Jeeny: “You make it sound like living’s a failure in progress.”

Jack: “Maybe it is. Every December feels like judgment day. Everyone posting pictures of their perfect families, their new houses, their smiling faces under fake snow. Meanwhile, you’re sitting here counting cracks in your wall.”

Jeeny: “Maybe you’re looking in the wrong direction.”

Jack: “Where else is there to look? The past is full of ghosts, the future’s full of bills.”

Host: Jeeny smiled faintly, her eyes reflecting both the firelight and something quieter — sorrow, maybe, or faith disguised as defiance.

Jeeny: “You ever notice how people stop in the street when snow starts falling? Even strangers look up for a second. That’s what Christmas is to me. It’s not about success, Jack. It’s about the pause. The breath. The reminder that we’re still here — still capable of awe, even in the ruins.”

Jack: “Awe doesn’t pay rent.”

Jeeny: “No. But it pays something else — attention.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his chair creaking under the weight of the thought. The lights from the tree blinked across his face — red, green, gold — each color touching his eyes and fading before finding a home there.

Jack: “You sound like you forgive the year before it even ends.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I do. Because what’s the alternative? To spend Christmas tallying failures until there’s no space left for wonder? Powell wasn’t wrong — it does stop time. But what you do in that stillness… that’s up to you.”

Jack: “And what if all you find in that stillness is emptiness?”

Jeeny: “Then it’s proof you’re still alive to feel it.”

Host: Her words hung in the air, gentle but heavy. The record skipped, caught on a line — “through the years we all will be together…” — repeating until Jeeny rose and carefully lifted the needle.

Jack watched her move, her small silhouette framed by the flicker of the fire and the silver halo of light spilling from the tree.

Jack: “You really think Christmas forgives?”

Jeeny: “It doesn’t need to. Forgiveness isn’t the point. Reflection is.”

Jack: “You sound like a priest.”

Jeeny: “Maybe just someone who’s tired of confusing the calendar with judgment.”

Host: Jack turned his gaze toward the window. Across the street, in another apartment, a family was laughing — shadows dancing, a child running with tinsel like a comet’s tail. For a fleeting second, something in his chest ached — not jealousy, but recognition.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, my father used to say Christmas was like holding your breath underwater. You count the seconds until it’s over, then pretend it was beautiful.”

Jeeny: “And was it?”

Jack: “Sometimes. When the lights were off and everyone had gone to bed, I’d just sit by the tree. It was quiet then. Like the world stopped judging for a few minutes.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what Powell meant. Not that Christmas is a reminder of failure — but that it’s the only time we dare to look at it. To stop running long enough to see where we are in the race.”

Jack: “And you think that’s healthy?”

Jeeny: “Only if you see failure for what it really is — unfinished living.”

Host: The fire cracked, releasing a small burst of sparks that glowed and faded before touching anything. Jack watched them rise, vanish, and for a moment, his shoulders relaxed.

Jack: “Unfinished living, huh? You make even despair sound poetic.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what keeps it from becoming despair.”

Host: The clock on the mantel ticked toward midnight. Outside, faint bells echoed through the empty street, mixing with laughter from somewhere unseen.

Jack: “So, if Christmas stops time, as Powell says, maybe it’s not to punish us. Maybe it’s to give us one last second to breathe before the next year starts.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s the year holding its breath with us.”

Jack: “And what if next year’s just the same?”

Jeeny: “Then we keep breathing. That’s all life really asks.”

Host: Jack raised his glass finally, the amber liquid catching the glow of the fire.

Jack: “To breathing, then.”

Jeeny: “To breathing. And to stillness.”

Host: They clinked their glasses gently, the sound soft and human against the cold glass of the window. The snow outside thickened, falling in slow, silent grace, covering the city’s noise like forgiveness covering regret.

The tree blinked steadily. The record spun its last groove. The fire burned low.

And as midnight arrived — quiet, unannounced — time did stop, for just a heartbeat.

Host: In that fragile pause between one year and the next, between failure and faith, Jack and Jeeny sat surrounded by flickering light — and in their silence, something tender stirred, something that felt almost like peace.

For a brief, flickering instant, even failure seemed holy.