My grandson sees me as Lois on TV every Christmas, and that

Host: The evening snow fell in slow, gentle spirals — flakes tumbling like forgotten letters written to the sky. The town square glowed with warm light, strung with garlands and golden bulbs. Children’s laughter echoed off the brick walls, mingling with the faint strains of an old carol playing from a café speaker.

Inside that café — a cozy refuge of steam, cinnamon, and chatter — Jack sat by the window, his hands cupped around a mug of hot chocolate he hadn’t touched. Across from him, Jeeny watched the snowfall through the glass, her eyes soft, reflecting the lights outside. The warmth of the room hummed around them, but between them lingered something quieter — nostalgia dressed as conversation waiting to be spoken.

Jeeny: (smiling, watching a little boy outside point at the Christmas tree) “Margot Kidder once said, ‘My grandson sees me as Lois on TV every Christmas, and that scores me points.’”

Jack: (chuckling softly) “Lois Lane, huh? That’s one way to achieve immortality — live forever through reruns.”

Jeeny: “Or through love. The kind that remembers you when you’re flickering on a screen.”

Jack: “Nostalgia’s a tricky kind of love, Jeeny. It keeps you alive — but it never lets you move on.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the point. Some memories aren’t meant to fade; they’re meant to anchor.”

Host: The fireplace crackled in the corner, throwing ribbons of gold across the wooden floor. The faint aroma of roasted chestnuts filled the air, blending with the hum of conversation and the snow’s hush outside.

Jack: “You know what I hear in that quote? A woman trying to hold onto relevance. The industry forgot her, but the kid didn’t. That’s the currency of aging — being remembered by someone who never saw your fall.”

Jeeny: (turning to him) “Or maybe it’s not about relevance at all. Maybe it’s about grace — the kind that comes from seeing yourself reflected in someone’s joy, not your career.”

Jack: “Grace doesn’t pay the bills.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Neither does cynicism.”

Host: Jack laughed — the kind of laugh that carried exhaustion, but also the faintest hint of warmth. Outside, a couple walked by, hands intertwined, their breath visible in the cold. The little boy from before pressed his face to the café window, staring at a chocolate cake on display. His mother smiled apologetically, and Jeeny waved to him through the glass. The boy giggled and waved back.

Jeeny: “See that? That’s what Kidder meant. It’s not about fame. It’s about legacy — small, human, intimate. The kind of immortality that doesn’t need applause.”

Jack: “You’re saying love outlasts success?”

Jeeny: “Always. Success fades with the lights. Love glows even in the dark.”

Jack: “Then why do people chase the lights so hard?”

Jeeny: “Because they mistake brightness for warmth.”

Host: The snow thickened, and the windowpane fogged with warmth from inside. Jeeny traced a small heart on the glass absently, her finger leaving a brief mark before it vanished.

Jack watched her gesture — simple, fleeting — and something in his expression softened.

Jack: “You know, I grew up watching Kidder as Lois Lane. She was fearless — chasing stories, defying gravity, arguing with gods and men. But in the end, it wasn’t Superman who made her iconic. It was the fact that she made being human look brave.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why her grandson loves her. Not because she was Lois Lane — but because she was real enough to believe in her.”

Jack: “You think the roles we play ever really disappear?”

Jeeny: “No. They just get inherited. Every generation borrows the courage of the last.”

Host: The clock above the counter ticked softly, the hands moving like snowflakes in time. The barista refilled cups and hummed along to ‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.’ The café had become a cocoon — a world within a world.

Jack: “So what happens when no one remembers? When the reruns stop?”

Jeeny: “Then your life reruns in the hearts of those you touched. That’s what legacy means.”

Jack: “You make it sound easy.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. But it’s real. Look at you — the stories you’ve told, the people you’ve fought for. You think that disappears because no one’s filming?”

Jack: “No, but it fades.”

Jeeny: “Everything fades. But fading isn’t the same as ending.”

Host: A bell rang as someone entered the café, bringing with them a gust of cold air and a swirl of snow. The light flickered across Jeeny’s face — her eyes reflecting the firelight, her voice a soft echo of belief.

Jeeny: “You know what I love about that quote? It’s humble. It’s not about fame. It’s about a grandmother’s joy — the small miracle of being remembered in a child’s eyes. That’s eternity in its simplest form.”

Jack: “So love is the new stardom?”

Jeeny: “No. Love is the only stardom that matters.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his gaze drifting to the snowy window. Outside, the world glittered — fragile, temporary, perfect in its imperfection.

Jack: “You know, Kidder struggled later in life. Depression, disillusionment, loss. But somehow, this quote — it sounds peaceful. Like she finally found her light again, just in a different sky.”

Jeeny: “That’s the beauty of redemption. Sometimes the world forgets your name, but one child saying ‘Grandma’ makes you infinite again.”

Jack: “So that’s the secret to immortality — be loved by one soul deeply instead of admired by a thousand shallowly.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Fame is a season. Love is climate.”

Host: The fire popped, sending a tiny ember into the air before it disappeared. The snow outside glowed against the lamplight — flakes like fleeting ghosts, each one unique, none lasting long, yet together, eternal.

Jeeny: (softly) “It’s funny, isn’t it? Even the strongest heroes need to be remembered as human first.”

Jack: “And every human hopes to be someone’s hero, even for a moment.”

Host: A comfortable silence settled between them. The world outside blurred into white — peaceful, infinite, forgiving. The carols continued, soft and nostalgic.

And in that gentle stillness, Margot Kidder’s words shimmered like starlight through memory:

That fame fades,
but connection endures.
That the roles we play in youth
become the stories we leave in love.
That legacy isn’t in the spotlight,
but in the eyes that still shine when they see us.

Host: The snow thickened once more, but the café’s warmth remained — laughter, light, and the quiet hum of people alive together.

Jeeny looked at Jack and smiled.

Jeeny: “Maybe someday, someone will remember us — not for what we said, but for how we stayed.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “Maybe that’s all the immortality we need.”

Host: And outside, beneath the glow of the winter lights, the snow kept falling — quiet, forgiving, eternal —
just like love remembered every Christmas,
every rerun,
every heart that still believes in the human behind the hero.