I had a year-round Christmas tree with nothing but colored vinyl

Host: The neighborhood was wrapped in dusty twilight, the kind that blurs the edges of things — houses, trees, memories. A faint hum of a record spun somewhere, leaking out through a half-open window — an old Elvis tune, soft and warbling, like nostalgia itself was breathing through vinyl grooves.

Inside a cramped apartment, the air was heavy with the smell of old coffee and faint cigarette smoke. In the corner stood a Christmas tree, but not the kind dressed for December. It was there all year — a skeleton of green plastic and dust, hung with old 45 records instead of ornaments. The vinyls caught the dim light, reflecting faint rainbows across the peeling wall.

Jack sat on the worn sofa, eyes half-lidded, a beer in hand. Jeeny sat cross-legged on the rug, looking up at the strange tree with something between amusement and reverence.

Jeeny: “You kept it up all year?”

Jack: “Yeah,” he muttered, half-grinning. “My kind of evergreen. Doesn’t die. Doesn’t shed. Doesn’t ask for holidays.”

Jeeny: “With Elvis records for ornaments.”

Jack: “Better than glass balls. Those don’t sing.”

Host: The light from the lamp trembled slightly, catching the spinning surface of a scratched “Can’t Help Falling in Love.” The song had warped over time — the pitch bending, the words trembling, like a memory replayed too often. Outside, rain began to fall, soft and measured.

Jeeny: “You know, John Prine once said he had a tree like this — hung with old Elvis 45s. Year-round Christmas.”

Jack: “Yeah,” Jack said, eyes on the records. “That’s where I got the idea.”

Jeeny: “Of course you did.”

Jack: “Man had it right. Life’s too short to take down your joy just because the calendar says so.”

Jeeny: “Or too long to keep pretending it’s December all the time.”

Host: She reached out and gently touched one of the dangling records. It spun slowly, catching light like a memory caught mid-laughter. Jack watched, his eyes thoughtful, the reflection of the vinyl’s movement dancing in his grey pupils.

Jack: “You ever notice how those old records — they’re heavier than the new ones? More real. You could kill someone with a good Elvis pressing.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “So, sentiment with a side of danger.”

Jack: “Exactly. Like life. You hang your past on a tree, light it up, and call it tradition.”

Jeeny: “Or denial.”

Jack: “Depends on who’s watching.”

Host: The rain thickened, tapping against the window like an old drummer testing a forgotten beat. The tree, with its black vinyl leaves, stood still — a monument to something unspoken, something both tender and broken.

Jeeny: “So tell me, Jack. What does it mean to you — this tree?”

Jack: “Means I’ve got something that doesn’t leave.”

Jeeny: “That’s it?”

Jack: “That’s everything.”

Jeeny: “You make permanence sound like love.”

Jack: “It’s the closest thing I trust.”

Host: Her brows furrowed slightly, and she leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. Her eyes, deep and brown, glowed softly in the lamp’s warmth — a mix of pity and admiration.

Jeeny: “You can’t freeze life in one season, Jack. You can’t hang old songs and expect them to sing the same.”

Jack: “Why not? Better than chasing new ones that don’t mean a damn thing.”

Jeeny: “Because meaning doesn’t die with change. It just transforms.”

Jack: “You sound like a therapist with good lighting.”

Jeeny: “You sound like a man afraid of moving on.”

Jack: “And you sound like someone who’s never lost enough to be scared of stillness.”

Host: The room went quiet. The only sound was the record’s faint spin, whispering its distorted rhythm into the dim air. Jeeny’s fingers traced the edges of a vinyl label — “Love Me Tender” — the title faded but visible, like an old scar.

Jeeny: “You know what’s strange? I think John Prine meant it as a joke. A Christmas tree with Elvis records — kitschy, ridiculous. But it became a kind of truth. Like he was saying — we decorate our loneliness with nostalgia.”

Jack: “You think everything’s loneliness.”

Jeeny: “And you think nothing is.”

Jack: “Maybe because I’ve learned how to live with it.”

Jeeny: “No, you’ve learned how to bury it.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened. He looked away, toward the rain-streaked window, where the neon glow of a distant sign pulsed like a heartbeat. The reflection of the vinyls shimmered faintly on the glass — small halos in motion.

Jack: “You ever listen to Elvis on a broken turntable? It wobbles. The voice bends, stretches, but somehow… it’s still beautiful. Maybe that’s the point.”

Jeeny: “That beauty is in the damage?”

Jack: “That beauty survives the damage.”

Jeeny: “And yet you never let it heal.”

Jack: “Healing is overrated. Some things just need to be remembered.”

Host: Her eyes glistened — not with tears, but with a kind of ache. The kind that comes from understanding too much. She looked around the apartment, at the stacks of old records, the dusty photographs, the flickering radio — a museum of a man’s silence.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack, people like you don’t fear death. You fear forgetting.”

Jack: “And people like you — you forget too easily.”

Jeeny: “Because life keeps giving me reasons to start again.”

Jack: “And mine keeps giving me reasons not to.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the tree isn’t joy to you. Maybe it’s a gravestone.”

Host: The words hung in the air like smoke — heavy, unescapable. Jack didn’t speak for a long while. The record player clicked softly as the needle reached the end, a faint hiss filling the space between them.

Jack: (quietly) “Maybe. But even gravestones have flowers sometimes.”

Jeeny: “Then change them, Jack. Take off the old records. Hang something new.”

Jack: “You don’t just replace history, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “No. But you can choose what grows around it.”

Host: The lamp flickered again — a pulse of gold and shadow. Outside, the rain slowed, leaving the world clean and silent. Inside, the tree stood, its records swaying gently as if nodding in agreement or memory. Jeeny rose and walked toward it, touching one last vinyl — “Blue Christmas” — spinning it so it caught the light.

Jeeny: “You ever wonder why Christmas trees come down, Jack?”

Jack: “Because people get tired of pretending to be happy.”

Jeeny: “No. Because every ending deserves a new start.”

Host: Jack stood too, stepping closer, the space between them thinning until only the hum of the record separated their breaths. His eyes softened, and for once, the cynicism drained, leaving only quiet fatigue.

Jack: “Maybe I’ll take it down tomorrow.”

Jeeny: “And hang something living in its place.”

Jack: “Like what?”

Jeeny: “A plant. Or hope.”

Jack: “Hope dies faster than vinyl.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Then you’ll have to water it more often.”

Host: The faintest laugh escaped Jack — dry, uncertain, but real. He reached out, plucked one record from the branch — “Heartbreak Hotel” — and held it in his hand. The tree swayed slightly, lighter now, as though even it had been waiting for that gesture.

He turned the record over, stared at its scratched surface, then set it gently on the table. Jeeny watched in silence, her eyes glimmering with a quiet kind of victory — not over him, but with him.

Host: The camera lingers — on the tree, half-empty now; on the two figures standing close but not touching; on the record player, spinning to silence. The rain stops completely. The city hums back to life.

And somewhere, faint and ghostlike, Elvis sings again —
“I’ll have a blue Christmas without you…”

But in the room, for the first time in a long time, there’s a touch of something else — not blue, not broken.

Just warm.

Just human.

And as the light fades, the old vinyls glint like little suns, carrying yesterday’s music into tomorrow’s quiet.