We play everybody's Christmas records at our house, and sometimes

Host: The snow fell in slow, deliberate flakes, each one catching the glow of the streetlamp like tiny pieces of music suspended in air. The world outside was quiet — that deep, midwinter quiet that feels like it’s listening. Inside the small cabin, the fire crackled, casting a warm amber light across the wooden walls and the two figures sitting opposite one another.

Jack leaned against the old couch, a guitar resting across his knees, the strings still vibrating from a note he hadn’t finished. Jeeny sat near the window, wrapped in a thick sweater, her hands cupped around a mug of hot cocoa. Outside, faint music drifted in from a neighbor’s house — an old Christmas record spinning through the cold.

Host: The air was heavy with the scent of pine and cinnamon — and something else, something tender: the weight of memory.

Jeeny: (smiling softly) “You know, Trisha Yearwood once said something that made me laugh and ache at the same time: ‘We play everybody's Christmas records at our house, and sometimes you think, “I'm not gonna play my own record; I'd be embarrassed.” But I'm gonna play our record this Christmas, because I love the songs!’”

Jack: (chuckling) “Ah, that’s honesty wrapped in humility. Imagine being embarrassed to enjoy your own work. But I get it — we always distrust what’s ours, don’t we?”

Jeeny: “It’s not distrust. It’s modesty. Or maybe just the fear of seeming self-indulgent. Like happiness has to be earned by loving someone else’s song, not your own.”

Jack: (plucking a note) “Or maybe we just think that joy should be borrowed, not owned. It’s safer that way — to hide behind someone else’s melody.”

Host: The fire shifted, spitting a small spark that flew and then died, a bright echo of their conversation. The record player in the corner hummed, the needle hovering over a vinyl sleeve labeled in neat, fading ink: Jack & Jeeny – December Songs.

Jeeny: “Remember when we made that?”

Jack: (grinning) “Barely. I remember too much whiskey and too little sleep. And you insisting that the second verse needed to ‘breathe more’ — whatever that meant.”

Jeeny: “It meant it was too proud. It needed vulnerability.”

Jack: “Like this conversation.”

Jeeny: (laughs) “Exactly like this conversation.”

Host: Her laugh was warm, light, the kind that filled a room with something alive. But beneath it was a thread of hesitation — the kind that comes when joy and guilt share the same space.

Jeeny: “You never play that record anymore.”

Jack: “Because it feels like pretending. I wrote those songs when we still believed in forever. Now it feels like playing ghosts.”

Jeeny: “But they’re our ghosts, Jack. And ghosts deserve to be remembered, especially in December.”

Host: The firelight danced across their faces — his lined, hers soft but thoughtful — and for a moment, it was as if the years between then and now folded into each other.

Jack: “It’s funny, isn’t it? Trisha Yearwood says she’s going to play her record this Christmas because she loves the songs. But I can’t even listen to mine without hearing the arguments behind the harmony.”

Jeeny: “That’s because you hear through regret, not rhythm. Music doesn’t hold pain, Jack. People do.”

Jack: “You think love songs survive love?”

Jeeny: “Of course they do. They’re not about love — they’re about truth. And truth doesn’t expire just because hearts change shape.”

Host: A long silence settled between them, broken only by the gentle click of the firewood collapsing inward. The kind of silence that isn’t empty, but full — full of what’s left unsaid.

Jack: “You know, I used to think making that record was the most vulnerable thing I’d ever done. But I realize now — it wasn’t the recording. It was the playing it back. Hearing yourself, naked in melody. That’s the hardest part.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why she said it — that mix of pride and embarrassment. Because to love your own creation means forgiving who you were when you made it.”

Jack: “So, what — we should forgive ourselves by listening?”

Jeeny: “By listening, yes. And by loving the sound even if the past still hums through it.”

Host: Jack looked at her — the way her hair caught the faint glow of the fire, the small crease near her lip when she smiled — and something in him softened, like snow melting under light.

Jack: “Play it, then.”

Jeeny: “What?”

Jack: “The record. Ours.”

Host: Her eyes widened slightly — surprise, then tenderness. She rose, crossed the room, and lifted the old record from its sleeve. The vinyl gleamed like black glass. She set it on the turntable, placed the needle down.

A faint crackle. Then, the familiar opening chords — slow, wistful, and warm — filled the room. Their younger voices began to sing together, rough with imperfection, radiant with sincerity.

Jeeny: (whispering) “We sound so young.”

Jack: “We were. We thought joy was something you earned.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now I think it’s something you remember.”

Host: The music floated around them, weaving through the firelight and the soft patter of snow beyond the glass. Jeeny moved closer to him, and for a while, neither spoke. Their old harmonies — captured years ago — did the talking for them.

After a while, the record ended, the last note fading into a small, rhythmic crackle. Jeeny lifted the needle, her hand trembling just slightly.

Jeeny: “Still embarrassed?”

Jack: (smiling) “No. Just... humbled.”

Jeeny: “By what?”

Jack: “By the fact that we meant every word. Even the ones that stopped being true.”

Host: She sat beside him again. The fire had burned lower now, its glow gentler, like an afterthought. Outside, the snow continued, covering the world in silence — that sacred hush that feels like forgiveness.

Jeeny: “You know, I think that’s what Yearwood meant — it’s not about pride, it’s about gratitude. To play your own song isn’t arrogance. It’s remembering you had the courage to make something honest once.”

Jack: (softly) “Then maybe I’ll play it again tomorrow.”

Jeeny: “Good. Play it loud. Let the neighbors complain.”

Host: They laughed, the sound soft and human against the crackling fire. And for the first time in years, Jack didn’t flinch when he heard his younger self singing through the speakers. He just listened, as if to a friend he finally forgave.

Outside, the snow kept falling, quiet and endless. Inside, the record player spun — not just a song, but a circle, closing softly where it had once begun.

Host: And in that small room, with its fire and ghosts and laughter, the music of two imperfect people found its echo again — not in nostalgia, but in something braver, gentler, and true:

the simple act of loving the songs you made, even when they’re about who you used to be.