I don't like to see Christmas trees torn down.

Host: The evening snow fell softly on the small-town street, its quiet rhythm catching the faint hum of an old jukebox inside a diner that hadn’t changed in thirty years. Through the fogged windows, yellow light spilled out into the white air like a memory refusing to fade.

Inside, the diner was half-empty. The linoleum floor gleamed beneath tired red stools. A half-lit neon sign buzzed above the counter — “Coffee 5¢ — Forever.”

Jack sat in the corner booth, his coat still dusted with snow, a cup of black coffee steaming before him. Across the table, Jeeny sat with her chin resting in her hands, watching him with quiet amusement. Between them sat a small, slightly crooked Christmas tree — its ornaments faded, tinsel thinning, one string of lights flickering weakly but trying, stubbornly, to glow.

Pinned to the bulletin board by the door was a wrinkled clipping from an old interview, the headline barely visible: John Prine on Love, Loss, and Christmas Trees. Beneath it, in bold, was the line that started it all:

“I don’t like to see Christmas trees torn down.”
— John Prine

Jeeny: “You know, I think he meant more than trees.”

Jack: “He always did.”

Host: The coffee machine hissed somewhere behind the counter. The air smelled of cinnamon and nostalgia.

Jeeny: “When Prine said that, he wasn’t talking about decorations. He was talking about spirit — about the small things we tear down too soon. Hope, maybe. Belief.”

Jack: “Or innocence.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The world’s always in a hurry to pack joy back in its box.”

Host: Jack leaned back in the booth, his eyes tracing the flickering string of lights on the tree.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, my mom kept the tree up until February. Drove my dad crazy. Said she couldn’t stand the house looking so bare after.”

Jeeny: “Maybe she just didn’t want to admit that magic ends.”

Jack: “Or maybe she didn’t want to admit it was rare.”

Host: The snow outside thickened, soft flakes sticking to the glass. Inside, the jukebox clicked and whirred before starting a slow song — a John Prine tune, the kind that sounded like a smile and heartbreak at once.

Jeeny: “You know what I love about that quote? It’s sentimental, sure — but it’s defiant, too. It’s him saying, ‘Don’t rush the good things.’ The world’s too quick to move on.”

Jack: “Yeah. We dismantle happiness faster than we build it.”

Jeeny: “Because happiness feels undeserved. Grief, though — grief we know what to do with.”

Host: Jack gave a soft laugh — not mockery, but recognition.

Jack: “You think we tear down trees because we can’t stand the sight of something joyful when the calendar says it’s over?”

Jeeny: “I think we tear them down because we don’t know how to live without the excuse to be kind.”

Host: A moment of silence. Outside, a car passed, its headlights sweeping briefly across their faces — light, shadow, gone.

Jack: “Prine had a way of making the simplest words sound like confessions.”

Jeeny: “That’s because he saw poetry in the ordinary. A torn-down tree, a forgotten love, a half-finished beer — he gave them all weight. He made people realize beauty wasn’t something you find. It’s something you keep.”

Jack: “Until you forget.”

Jeeny: “Or until you remember again — too late.”

Host: The waitress walked by, setting down a slice of pie between them — cherry, still warm, the kind of pie that’s less dessert and more therapy. She smiled faintly, then disappeared again into the soft hum of the kitchen.

Jack: “You know what’s funny? People talk about progress, moving forward, new beginnings. But sometimes I think the most radical act is staying still. Leaving the tree up a little longer.”

Jeeny: “Because it’s not about the tree.”

Jack: “No. It’s about not rushing the ending.”

Host: Jeeny leaned forward, her voice lowering, soft but sure.

Jeeny: “We live in a culture obsessed with tearing down what’s beautiful as soon as it starts to fade. We forget that fading is part of beauty. The lights don’t need to be bright forever — they just need to glow long enough to remind us we once had warmth.”

Jack: “You ever wonder if maybe Prine wrote that line looking at a tree he couldn’t bring himself to take down?”

Jeeny: “I’m sure he did. And I bet it was more than a tree he was thinking of.”

Host: Jack smiled faintly, a sad smile. He lifted his coffee, the rising steam blurring his reflection in the window.

Jack: “Sometimes I think that’s all life is — learning not to tear down the things that once made you feel alive.”

Jeeny: “Or at least learning to let them go gently.”

Host: The jukebox changed songs. The next one began with a soft guitar riff and a line that seemed to hum straight into the air between them — “You can gaze out the window, get mad and get madder…”

Jeeny: “See? Even his songs knew it — the ache of endings. That’s what makes them feel like home.”

Jack: “Because home isn’t where you live. It’s what you can’t bring yourself to throw away.”

Host: The neon sign buzzed louder for a moment, then steadied — red light spilling across the table, painting the pie and the coffee in soft color.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why people love Christmas so much. For a few weeks, the world feels small again. Forgiving. Familiar. Then January comes, and everyone starts acting like they never believed in magic at all.”

Jack: “You know what the saddest day of the year is?”

Jeeny: “When the lights come down.”

Jack: “Yeah.”

Host: The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was the silence of two people quietly agreeing on something too true to say twice.

Jeeny reached across the table, gently straightening one crooked ornament on the tree. The light reflected in her eyes like a promise not to let go too soon.

Jeeny: “You know, maybe the real rebellion isn’t in decorating the tree. It’s in refusing to take it down.”

Jack: “A protest against forgetting.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. A small, twinkling act of resistance.”

Host: The song ended. The snow outside fell thicker now, blanketing everything in stillness.

Jeeny looked at the tree, then at him.

Jeeny: “We should leave it up all year.”

Jack: “What would people think?”

Jeeny: “Let them think. Let them remember.”

Host: He smiled, slow and genuine. The kind of smile that carries gratitude for the things that endure quietly — light, warmth, memory.

They sat there, watching the little tree flicker in its stubborn glow — imperfect, half-broken, utterly beautiful.

And as the camera of the heart pulled back — the diner glowing like a lantern in the snow — John Prine’s words drifted through the stillness like a song:

that beauty is not meant to be dismantled,
that love deserves to linger past its season,
and that sometimes the kindest thing we can do
is leave the lights on
just a little longer
— for memory,
for mercy,
for the quiet rebellion
of not tearing joy down too soon.