The whole point of me doing a Christmas record and what I

Host: The snow drifted in slow, silent swirls through the amber light of a streetlamp, melting as it touched the black river that cut through the city’s heart. It was Christmas Eve — the streets almost empty, save for the faint echo of a choir rehearsing somewhere beyond the bridge.
Inside a small vinyl café, the air smelled of pine, coffee, and old records. Rick Springfield’s “Christmas with You” played softly through the speakers, his voice carrying the weight of distance — the ache of men far from home.

Jack sat near the window, his hands wrapped around a chipped mug of coffee, the steam rising like ghostly prayers. Jeeny leaned across from him, her coat unbuttoned, her eyes reflecting the lights from the tinsel-strung tree by the counter.

Jeeny: “You know this song?”

Jack: nods slowly “Yeah. Springfield wrote it for the soldiers in Iraq. Heard him say it once — he wanted to capture what it feels like to be somewhere between duty and longing. I guess that’s what Christmas means for some people — distance.”

Jeeny: “It’s beautiful. Sad, but beautiful.”

Jack: “That’s the thing about Christmas songs — they’re all about joy, peace, togetherness. But the truth? Half the world spends the holiday missing someone.”

Host: The record crackled, the needle trembling in its groove. Outside, the snowflakes clung to the window glass, each one briefly alive before it melted and disappeared.

Jeeny: “You sound cynical, even about kindness.”

Jack: “Not cynical. Just realistic. Songs like this one — they remind you that joy isn’t universal. While we’re here sipping coffee, someone’s eating cold rations in a tent, watching fireworks that aren’t fireworks.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly why the song matters. Because it remembers them. Because it doesn’t turn their pain into background noise.”

Jack: sighs, looking at the record spinning “Maybe. But there’s something unfair about it too. About how we wrap war in melody — how we make grief sound poetic.”

Jeeny: “You think Springfield was romanticizing it?”

Jack: “No. I think he was surviving it. Art’s like that — it softens what we can’t carry. But it also hides it, buries it under harmony. Makes you forget that behind every verse, someone actually died.”

Host: The song swelled, the guitar soft and sorrowful, like a letter never sent. The café lights dimmed as the barista switched to the night bulbs — warm and low, bathing the room in quiet gold.

Jeeny: “Do you remember that Christmas we spent volunteering at the veteran’s ward?”

Jack: smiles faintly “Yeah. The one where the old man kept asking if the war had ended yet.”

Jeeny: “He said he couldn’t tell — because he still heard gunfire in his dreams.”

Jack: “That’s what I mean. For him, Christmas never really came back. It just... stopped arriving.”

Jeeny: “But that’s why Springfield’s song is important. It’s not about victory. It’s about waiting — about remembering what humanity costs.”

Jack: “Still feels like a wound we sing to instead of heal.”

Host: The wind outside rose, whistling through the cracks of the window frame. A faint tremor of laughter drifted from the far end of the café — two strangers sharing a slice of cake, their voices soft but alive.

Jeeny: “You know what’s strange, Jack? Every Christmas song pretends to be universal. Snow, family, love, peace. But for soldiers, for refugees, for anyone separated — Christmas becomes a mirror. It shows what’s missing.”

Jack: “And for the rest of us, it’s a distraction.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. Maybe it’s a bridge. Between those who have peace and those who don’t. Between those who can celebrate and those who can only hope.”

Jack: “That sounds nice. But bridges don’t always hold. You can write all the songs you want — people still forget. Every year, we sing about peace while building new wars.”

Jeeny: gently “Then maybe we need to keep singing until the words stop being lies.”

Host: Her voice trembled with both anger and hope. Jack looked at her, the faintest shadow of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He reached over, brushing a fleck of snow from her sleeve.

Jack: “You ever think about how music survives everything? Empires fall, wars end, but someone’s always humming.”

Jeeny: “That’s because songs are memory. They keep what history forgets. You can erase a name from a textbook, but not from a melody.”

Jack: “So you think this song — this one — will be remembered?”

Jeeny: “Not because it’s perfect. But because it’s honest. Because it dares to say, ‘I’m not home. I wish I were.’ That’s what love sounds like when it’s stuck between two worlds.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s what Christmas sounds like too.”

Host: The record ended, the needle lifting with a soft click. The café was nearly empty now. Outside, the snow kept falling, slow and endless, like an unfinished story.

Jack: “You ever wonder what those soldiers thought when they heard this song? Did it comfort them? Or did it just remind them of everything they’d lost?”

Jeeny: “Maybe both. Maybe that’s the point. You can’t comfort without remembering the wound.”

Jack: “My brother used to write letters home during his deployment. He said Christmas was the hardest. He’d listen to old songs on a cheap radio — said it made him feel human again.”

Jeeny: “That’s it, Jack. That’s what Springfield captured — humanity in exile.”

Jack: “He died there. My brother.” pauses “I never liked Christmas after that. I stopped listening to music altogether for years.”

Jeeny: quietly “Until tonight.”

Jack: nods slowly “Yeah. Until tonight.”

Host: The silence between them was tender, like a wound finally breathing. The tree lights blinked softly — red, green, gold — the rhythm of old hope refusing to die. Jeeny reached across the table, resting her hand over his.

Jeeny: “You don’t have to like Christmas, Jack. You just have to let it find you again.”

Jack: “And if it doesn’t?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it finds someone else through you.”

Jack: smiles weakly “That’s very Jeeny of you.”

Jeeny: “And very Jack of you to resist it.”

Host: A moment passed. Then, from the old turntable, a new song began — slow, tender, carrying the same ache, the same warmth. Jack looked out the window. The city was wrapped in white, soft and forgiving. The river glimmered under the lights like a ribbon of memory, moving but never gone.

Jack: “You know... maybe you’re right. Maybe the point of songs like this isn’t to fix anything. Maybe it’s just to remind us what’s still broken.”

Jeeny: “And to make us care enough to try.”

Host: Their hands remained clasped, the music filling the quiet between them like an unseen prayer. Outside, the snow fell without end, softening every harsh edge, erasing every scar of the city.

And as the camera pulled back, the café glowed like a small star in the dark winter, holding two figures — one haunted by memory, one lit by mercy — both listening to a song born from war,
a song that dared to whisper:

Even in distance, love remains.