I'm a good whistler. As I was growing up, we had a family

Host: The supermarket was quiet under the hum of fluorescent lights. The aisles stretched like long corridors of memory, filled with the soft clatter of carts and the faint music of something old playing over the speakers — a tune you didn’t recognize but somehow knew. The smell of fruit, cardboard, and bread hung in the air, simple and human.

Host: Jack stood in the middle of aisle seven, staring absentmindedly at rows of cereal boxes, each one promising something better than the rest. Jeeny approached from the end of the aisle, her cart half-full, her eyes bright, her smile unguarded, the kind that happens before thought can stop it.

Host: The world outside was loud and fast, but in here, everything slowed — as if the fluorescent light itself whispered, remember.

Jeeny: (softly, almost amused) “Stana Katic once said, ‘I’m a good whistler. As I was growing up, we had a family whistle, so if we were spread out somewhere, like in a grocery store, and heard the call, everyone came.’”

Jack: (smirking) “A family whistle? That’s... weirdly beautiful.”

Jeeny: “Right? Like a secret code, just for the people who know your sound.”

Jack: “We never had that. My family had yelling.”

Jeeny: (laughing) “Yelling’s a kind of whistle — just more... desperate.”

Jack: “Yeah, less melody, more survival.”

Host: They both laughed, their voices echoing slightly between the tall shelves of cereal and sugar. The laughter lingered for a moment, softening the air around them.

Jeeny: “You know what I love about that quote? It’s not about whistling. It’s about belonging. That one sound, and suddenly — no matter where you are — you’re found.”

Jack: (nodding) “Like sonar for love.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s something ancient — like how wolves call to their pack, or birds find their way back home. Sound as connection.”

Jack: “It’s strange — in a world filled with devices that track us, what people still miss most is being called by name. Or by whistle.”

Jeeny: “Because technology can find your location, but not your longing.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “You’ve got a poetic way of describing childhood.”

Jeeny: “Childhood isn’t a time — it’s a sound. And sometimes, if you’re lucky, you hear it again.”

Host: The sound system in the store changed songs. A slow piano melody drifted through the aisles. An old couple passed by, holding hands — their conversation quiet, tender.

Jack: “You know, my dad used to whistle too. Always the same tune — this old Sinatra melody. Every time he came home from work, you’d hear it before you saw him. It was like his announcement: I’m back. The world can breathe again.”

Jeeny: “See? You had a whistle. You just didn’t call it that.”

Jack: (pauses) “Maybe. But when he died, I couldn’t hear that sound anywhere. It was like the house went deaf.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Sounds carry people longer than memories do.”

Jack: “Yeah. Sometimes I still think I hear it — on the street, or in the wind. It’s funny how your brain keeps trying to summon ghosts.”

Jeeny: “Not ghosts — echoes.”

Jack: “What’s the difference?”

Jeeny: “Ghosts haunt you. Echoes hold you.”

Host: The store intercom crackled briefly, then went silent again. The flicker of the overhead lights made the air shimmer. Jeeny leaned against her cart, thoughtful.

Jeeny: “You know, I think families need their own whistle — not just sound, but something that calls them back. Maybe it’s a joke, a meal, a song. Something that says: we’re scattered, but we’re still us.”

Jack: “We used to have Sunday dinners. No phones, no TV. Just food and sarcasm.”

Jeeny: “That’s a whistle too.”

Jack: “Yeah. We lost it when everyone started moving away. We traded ritual for convenience.”

Jeeny: “But the thing about a whistle — it doesn’t need proximity. It just needs recognition.”

Jack: “Meaning?”

Jeeny: “Meaning: you don’t have to be near to feel known. You just need to know that someone would still call.”

Host: A mother and her little boy passed them — the child running ahead down the aisle, disappearing around the corner. A moment later, a sharp, clear whistle rang out. The boy turned instantly, smiling, and ran back to his mother.

Host: Jack and Jeeny both watched. Neither spoke for a while.

Jack: (softly) “That sound… it’s simple, but it cuts through everything.”

Jeeny: “Because it’s pure. It’s not asking, it’s reminding.”

Jack: “Reminding of what?”

Jeeny: “That you belong to someone. That even when you wander, there’s a way back.”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “Yeah. Maybe that’s the closest thing to love — a signal that says, you can stop searching, you’re already found.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s why I love what she said — it’s not sentimental, it’s honest. Belonging isn’t constant presence. It’s shared recognition.”

Jack: “And the whistle is faith in disguise.”

Jeeny: “Faith?”

Jack: “Yeah. Every time you whistle, you’re trusting someone will answer.”

Host: The lights dimmed slightly as evening approached outside. The store aisles began to empty. Somewhere far down, the same old couple from before laughed softly — a gentle, human sound that carried all the way to them.

Jeeny: “You know, it’s strange how much meaning can live in sound. How one note can contain a lifetime.”

Jack: “Maybe because sound fades — it forces you to listen. You can’t hold it, only feel it.”

Jeeny: “And in a world obsessed with being seen, maybe being heard is what we miss most.”

Jack: “Especially by those who know our call.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Maybe we should make our own family whistle. Something that says, ‘Hey, I’m still here.’”

Jack: (grinning) “Just promise it won’t be in the key of annoyance.”

Jeeny: “I’ll try. But no promises.”

Host: The two of them laughed again, the sound mingling with the hum of the lights — warm, imperfect, alive. Jeeny pushed her cart toward the register; Jack followed, whistling a few soft notes as a joke.

Host: But when Jeeny turned back, she smiled — because something about it didn’t feel like a joke. It felt like connection. A sound that, somewhere deep in the heart, had always meant come home.

Host: And as they disappeared down the aisle, Stana Katic’s words lingered like the final note of a forgotten song:

Host: “I’m a good whistler. As I was growing up, we had a family whistle, so if we were spread out somewhere, like in a grocery store, and heard the call, everyone came.”

Host: Because love isn’t just seen — it’s heard.
Because belonging isn’t a place — it’s a sound.

Host: And sometimes, in the noise of the world,
the simplest whistle
is all it takes
to remind us
that we are still found.