One Christmas my father kept our tree up till March. He hated to

Host: The living room was a sanctuary of nostalgia — a room suspended in time. The Christmas tree still stood in the corner, its branches slightly drooping under the weight of months, but its lights still twinkled, soft and tired, like they’d grown accustomed to the long vigil. The air smelled faintly of pine and dust and something more tender — memory.

A single lamp cast a warm glow, reflecting off tinsel that had lost its shine. Outside, March rain tapped against the window, hesitant and rhythmic, as if unsure whether it was too late for winter to linger.

Jack sat on the worn sofa, nursing a cup of coffee that had long gone cold. Jeeny knelt by the tree, gently straightening one of the ornaments — a faded angel, missing one wing.

Jeeny: “Mo Rocca once said, ‘One Christmas my father kept our tree up till March. He hated to see it go. I loved that.’”

Jack: “March? That’s not a Christmas tree anymore — that’s an act of devotion.”

Host: His voice was half amused, half wistful. The light from the string of bulbs above them reflected in his grey eyes, making them glint like two winter embers refusing to go out.

Jeeny: “Maybe it wasn’t devotion. Maybe it was reluctance — the kind of love that can’t stand endings.”

Jack: “Or maybe he just didn’t like goodbyes. Some people cling to the glow long after the season’s over because they don’t trust the world to be kind without it.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly why I love that story. It’s not just about the tree. It’s about holding onto wonder — refusing to let ordinary life win too soon.”

Host: A strand of lights flickered, then steadied, like the heartbeat of a fading star. The tree seemed to listen — weary but proud.

Jack: “You sound like my mother. She used to keep decorations up till February. Said the house felt lonely without them.”

Jeeny: “She was right. There’s something tragic about taking beauty down before its time.”

Jack: “There’s something honest about letting go when it’s time, too.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But what if the time never really ends? Maybe some things aren’t meant to be packed away.”

Host: The clock ticked quietly on the mantel, its rhythm steady, patient — like the house itself was waiting for something to be understood.

Jack: “You know, my father hated the mess. He’d take down the tree the day after Christmas — said it made him feel efficient. He thought sentimentality was weakness.”

Jeeny: “Maybe he just didn’t know how to miss something gracefully.”

Jack: “Or maybe I didn’t know how to forgive him for being practical in a world that sometimes needed softness.”

Jeeny: “That’s what Rocca’s father understood — that joy doesn’t have an expiration date. That a small piece of light, even out of season, is worth keeping.”

Host: The rain outside grew stronger, pattering against the glass like a quiet applause for her words. Jack looked at the tree again — its brittle needles, its tired posture — and yet, something in it still shimmered with defiance.

Jack: “You really think keeping the tree up till March means something more than laziness?”

Jeeny: “Absolutely. It’s a kind of rebellion — against time, against dullness. It’s saying: No, not yet. I’m not ready to stop believing.”

Jack: “Believing in what?”

Jeeny: “In warmth. In joy. In that fleeting feeling that the world, for one season, feels kinder.”

Host: Jeeny sat back, her hands resting in her lap, her eyes lost in the soft blinking of the lights. Jack studied her — her reverence, her quiet refusal to move too fast through life.

Jack: “You really do live like it’s Christmas all year, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “Not Christmas — gratitude. The two are cousins.”

Jack: “Gratitude for what?”

Jeeny: “For the little things that make the big ones bearable. For music in silence. For hope that overstays its welcome.”

Host: The heater hummed softly, the only sound between them besides the faint sigh of the house settling into the cold. The tree, even in its fading glory, glowed like a stubborn memory refusing to dim.

Jack: “You know, I used to think people like your father — or Rocca’s — couldn’t let go because they were afraid. But maybe they were the brave ones. Maybe they knew the world after Christmas is too grey to face unlit.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Maybe they knew that endings don’t have to mean absence. That joy can echo — if you let it.”

Jack: “Then keeping the tree up is like keeping a heartbeat.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. A light that says, ‘I’m still here. I still believe in something.’”

Host: Jack stood, walked to the tree, and touched one of the ornaments — a small glass sphere with a child’s fingerprint still faintly visible on it. It tinkled slightly, fragile as memory.

Jack: “You know what’s funny? This thing’s been here so long, it doesn’t look out of place anymore. It looks… like it belongs to the house.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it does. Maybe the house remembers laughter better than silence.”

Jack: “You think the past can live in objects?”

Jeeny: “I think love can. It lingers where it was once freely given.”

Host: The rain had slowed to a drizzle. The window fogged slightly, blurring the world beyond. Inside, the glow of the tree wrapped them in a cocoon of time — where December never really left, and March was just another kind of waiting.

Jack: “So you think keeping this tree up is an act of love?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Love that refuses to obey the calendar.”

Jack: “Then maybe I’ve been too quick to take things down in my life — too eager to move on before I’ve truly remembered.”

Jeeny: “We all are. But sometimes, the soul needs to linger.”

Host: Jeeny stood, joined him by the tree. Together, they watched the lights — a few had gone dim, but others burned bright, determined.

Jack: “You know, I think I get it now. It’s not about the tree itself — it’s about the tenderness that put it there.”

Jeeny: “Yes. The tree just held the space for it.”

Host: A faint smile touched both their lips. The clock ticked on. Outside, the first buds of spring waited beneath the soil, unseen but alive.

Jack: “So maybe keeping the tree up till March isn’t clinging to the past — maybe it’s preparing for what’s next.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Maybe love, like the seasons, doesn’t end — it just changes color.”

Host: The camera would pull back slowly — the two figures standing in the soft glow of a tired but living Christmas tree, the last flicker of winter’s warmth against the promise of renewal.

And as the lights blinked once more — weary but unbroken — the room seemed to whisper a truth too gentle for words:
that love, like light, is at its most beautiful when it lingers.