One Christmas I had no money, and so I went home and just, like

Opening Scene

It was a quiet December afternoon, the air crisp with the first whispers of winter. Outside, snowflakes drifted gently, as though the world was holding its breath. The warm glow from a nearby fireplace filled the small, cozy room, casting soft shadows against the walls. The smell of cinnamon and freshly baked cookies lingered in the air, the faint sound of a holiday song playing in the background. Jack and Jeeny sat together by the fire, a few sweaters thrown over the chairs, each holding a mug of steaming hot cocoa. The peaceful scene contrasted with the unspoken tension that had followed them into the room.

Host: The warmth of the fire didn’t seem to reach the edges of the conversation they were about to have. The soft crackling of the fire matched the low, cautious tone in Jeeny’s voice.

Jeeny: “You ever have one of those Christmases, Jack? Where you just… don’t have the money to buy presents, but you want to give something anyway?”

Jack: He paused, his eyes still fixed on the fire, but his mind clearly somewhere else. “Sounds pretty standard, Jeeny. Not everyone can afford the big, flashy gifts, right?”

Jeeny: She leaned forward, wrapping her hands around the warmth of her mug. “Yeah, but it’s more than that. I mean, one year, I didn’t have anything to give—nothing but words. So, I just wrote a bunch of poems and gave them out. Handed them out like they were real gifts, you know?” Her eyes glimmered with the memory. “I gave people Pablo Neruda poems. Poems that made me think of them, that felt more meaningful than anything I could’ve bought.”

Jack: A half-smile flickered on his lips, but there was a hint of sarcasm in his voice. “So, you didn’t even write them yourself. Just handed out someone else’s words. That’s your idea of a gift?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And it was perfect, Jack.” Her tone was firm now, a gentle defiance seeping into her words. “Because those words weren’t mine, they were something more. They were shared, you know? I gave people a part of something that had already mattered to me—something I thought might matter to them, too. Sometimes, that’s all a gift needs to be. Real.”

Jack: “Real? You’re telling me handing out someone else’s poetry is more meaningful than an actual, personal gift?” He shook his head, a bitter laugh escaping him. “Seems a bit empty to me.”

Host: The firelight danced across their faces, reflecting the small, but growing friction between them. The light flickered as if to underscore the difference in their perspectives. Jeeny’s smile softened, while Jack’s jaw tightened, his gaze still fixed on the flames.

Jeeny: “I get it. I know you think things are the only real gifts. But don’t you think there’s more to giving than the price tag or the brand name? It’s about the meaning. About what something represents. When you give someone a gift, it’s supposed to tell them something about who you are, right? About how much they matter to you.”

Jack: His voice was sharp, the edges of his words cutting through the warmth of the room. “I don’t disagree with that. But let’s face it—words don’t pay the bills, Jeeny. Words don’t solve the problems. They don’t change people’s lives. Money does. Stuff does.” His eyes flashed with something darker, a hard-edged realism that contrasted with her gentle idealism. “What’s a poem gonna do for someone who’s struggling?”

Jeeny: “Nothing, maybe. But a poem might make them feel less alone, less like they’re stuck in the grind. That’s the point. The small things matter, Jack. The words you share, the thought you put into them, they can change someone’s entire day.” Her voice grew more passionate, the firelight flickering in her eyes. “Look at the world we live in—where people are more focused on getting things than giving real meaning. Maybe if we all just gave words, just a little more often, the world would be a better place.”

Host: The crackle of the fire seemed to fill the brief silence that followed. Outside, the snow had started to fall heavier, and the world beyond the small window felt far away. Inside, the tension between them shifted, becoming palpable. Jack’s expression remained stubborn, while Jeeny’s eyes were softer now, her words carrying more weight than they had before.

Jack: “So, you think that handing out a poem on Christmas is going to change everything? It’s a nice gesture, but what about the real things? The ones that cost you something? People need help, Jeeny. Not just words.”

Jeeny: “Help can come in many forms, Jack. It doesn’t always have to be something tangible. Sometimes the best thing you can give someone is a thought, a feeling that shows you see them. That they matter.” She paused for a moment, letting the words sink in. “It’s like what I gave people that year. Those poems weren’t just words. They were a reminder that the small things—like love, or thoughtfulness, or simply listening—can be just as important as anything you can buy.”

Host: The room was quiet now, save for the gentle crackle of the fire. The soft glow of the flames reflected in their eyes, casting long shadows that seemed to stretch between them. Jack’s hand rested on the edge of his cup, his fingers tapping lightly as he pondered her words.

Jack: “I get it. But real gifts… they show you care in a more tangible way.” His voice was quieter now, as if the conversation had begun to sink in, leaving him with a tinge of doubt. “But maybe you’re right. Maybe there’s something in just… sharing a part of yourself.”

Jeeny: She smiled, her eyes warm with understanding. “That’s all it really is, Jack. A gift doesn’t have to come with a price tag. Sometimes, the best gifts are the ones that cost you the least.”

Host: The fire flickered one last time, casting a golden glow over the room. Outside, the snow continued to fall, blanketing the world in soft, white silence. In the small, cozy space, Jack and Jeeny sat quietly, their differences not resolved, but softened. Both of them now understanding a little more about the true spirit of giving.