We looked up to our father. He still is much greater than us.

Host:
The night hung over New Orleans like a deep blue note — slow, rich, trembling in the humid air. The streetlamps glowed through a thin veil of mist, casting their light across the empty sidewalks, where the ghosts of old trumpet solos still seemed to wander. Somewhere down the block, a lone saxophone wept, its sound drifting from an open bar window, carrying both sorrow and grace.

Inside that dim bar — The Marigny Moon — Jack and Jeeny sat at a corner table, half-lit by a low lamp, the smell of bourbon and old wood clinging to the air. A black-and-white photo of the Marsalis family hung on the wall, framed in dust and reverence.

The quote was written below it, in neat script:
“We looked up to our father. He still is much greater than us.” — Wynton Marsalis.

Jeeny: gazing at the photo “There’s something so humble in that. Imagine — one of the greatest jazz musicians alive, saying he’ll never measure up to his father.”

Jack: leans back, eyes on his drink “Or maybe it’s not humility. Maybe it’s nostalgia — that trick the mind plays to make the past seem golden.”

Jeeny: “You think reverence is a trick?”

Jack: “I think it’s selective memory. We canonize the dead, and romanticize the living who made us. Makes the pain of growing up easier to swallow.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s gratitude. Not worship, just acknowledgment — that we come from someone bigger than ourselves.”

Jack: “No one’s bigger, Jeeny. Just earlier.”

Host: The band in the back shifted into a slow blues rhythm — a few musicians, sweating, smiling, playing like prayer. The bass thumped like a steady heartbeat, and the trumpet rose, clear and aching, as if echoing from the walls of memory.

Jeeny: “Listen to that. Every note they play — it’s conversation. That’s what family is, too. A long, imperfect improvisation. Each generation picks up where the last one left off.”

Jack: “And sometimes they ruin the song.”

Jeeny: frowns slightly “You sound bitter.”

Jack: “I sound realistic. Not everyone gets a father worth looking up to. Some of us grow up learning what not to become.”

Jeeny: gently “Did yours teach you that?”

Jack: pauses, eyes flicking away “He taught me silence. Which, I suppose, is still a lesson.”

Host: A faint tension settled in the air, like a string drawn tight between two notes. The rain began again outside, soft, steady, tapping against the glass like fingers keeping time.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why Wynton’s words hit so hard. Because not everyone gets to say them.”

Jack: nodding slowly “Yeah. For him, the man was a compass. For me, he was fog.”

Jeeny: “Fog still holds light, Jack. You just have to walk through it.”

Jack: smirks “You always make pain sound poetic.”

Jeeny: “Because pain is poetic — it just needs someone brave enough to translate it.”

Host: The bartender wiped down the counter, the sound of glass against wood joining the rhythm of the jazz. In the corner, the saxophone player closed his eyes mid-solo — lost, as if speaking to a ghost.

Jeeny: “You know, Ellis Marsalis — Wynton’s father — was more than a musician. He was a teacher. He raised six sons, each carrying his sound in their blood. That’s what I think Wynton meant — not that his father played better, but that he lived better. Greater not in skill, but in soul.”

Jack: “So greatness isn’t talent?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s legacy. The quiet things you build that others can stand on.”

Jack: “Legacy sounds nice — until you realize it’s just pressure in disguise. ‘Live up to this, honor that, be worthy of the blood in your veins.’ Sometimes legacy is a weight, not a gift.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s both. Weight gives strength — if you learn how to carry it.”

Jack: laughs dryly “You should’ve been a preacher.”

Jeeny: “And you should’ve been a son.”

Host: The words landed like a soft blow. Jack’s expression froze, then softened, as if something old and buried had just stirred. The trumpet outside wailed, a note long and low — the kind that cuts straight through denial.

Jack: after a moment “When I was a kid, I used to watch him fix clocks. He never spoke much, but every gear, every tick — it was like he was healing time itself. I thought he was immortal.”

Jeeny: “And when did that change?”

Jack: “When I realized he was human. When I found out immortality rusts.”

Jeeny: “That doesn’t mean he stopped being great.”

Jack: “No. It just means I stopped being blind.”

Jeeny: “Maybe greatness is in the cracks — not in perfection, but in persistence.”

Host: The band had shifted again — a slow, smoky improvisation, the kind that makes the world feel half-real. The rain outside was heavier now, drumming against the windows in rhythm with the bassline. Jeeny watched Jack, her eyes full of both empathy and defiance.

Jeeny: “You know what I think? You still look up to him. Even if you don’t admit it.”

Jack: half-smiling “What makes you so sure?”

Jeeny: “Because every time you talk about him, your voice lowers — just a little. Like a prayer you don’t want anyone to hear.”

Jack: sighs “You read too much between the lines.”

Jeeny: “Someone has to.”

Jack: “You ever think some fathers don’t want to be gods? That they’d rather be forgotten than worshiped?”

Jeeny: “And yet, even then — their shadows linger. Maybe not as gods, but as echoes. You can hate the echo, but you still turn your head when it calls your name.”

Host: The rain slowed, and the saxophonist ended his piece with a final, fading note — the kind that lingers just long enough to break your heart. The bar was nearly empty now. The bartender was watching an old clock tick toward midnight, its hands slow but steady.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what Wynton was saying. Not that his father’s greater in size, but in silence — that quiet, unspoken greatness that just is.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. True greatness doesn’t demand recognition. It just exists — like rhythm, like heartbeat.”

Jack: nodding slowly “I guess even I can respect that.”

Jeeny: “Then you understand it. Maybe that’s how you honor him — not by worshiping, but by acknowledging.”

Jack: “By learning to listen again.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Like jazz — it’s not about playing louder. It’s about knowing when to pause.”

Host:
The music had stopped. The rain had quieted. Only the steady tick of the clock remained — the same sound that once filled a boy’s room as he watched his father work beneath the soft lamp glow.

Jack looked toward the photo on the wall once more — the father, the sons, all framed in light and shadow. His eyes softened, and for a moment, his usual cynicism melted into something quieter, older, almost reverent.

Jack: quietly “We looked up to our father… He still is much greater than us.”

Jeeny: smiles softly “Then maybe you’ve found your rhythm again.”

Host:
Outside, the rain stopped. A faint mist rose over the streets, catching the light of the lamps in small, golden halos. The band began to pack up their instruments, the last note still hovering in the air like an unanswered prayer.

And as they stood, Jack and Jeeny walked out into the New Orleans night, where the echo of fathers, faith, and music mingled with the rain, reminding the world — some legacies don’t end.

They just change key.