When I was six years old, Mom and Dad gave me a guitar for my

Host: The evening light spilled like melted amber through the open window of a small wooden house at the edge of town. The air was thick with the scent of honeysuckle and the faint hum of summer — crickets, distant thunder, the rustle of trees bending to the wind.

Inside, the living room was quiet except for the soft plucking of an old guitar. The sound was hesitant, tender — like a child learning to speak through music. Jack sat on the worn sofa, a battered guitar resting across his knees. Jeeny stood near the window, watching the twilight gather its colors.

On the coffee table lay a faded photograph — a boy with dark hair and too-big eyes holding a guitar twice his size, smiling as if he’d just learned the language of the world. Written on the back, in soft pencil, was a quote that had outlived the paper:
“When I was six years old, Mom and Dad gave me a guitar for my birthday, and Daddy taught me the chords to ‘You Are My Sunshine.’” — Roy Orbison.

Jeeny: smiling faintly “You know, there’s something pure about that — a child learning love through a song.”

Jack: fingers stilling on the strings “Or learning pain. That song’s happy on the surface, but it’s heartbreak underneath.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why he remembered it. Because it was both.”

Host: The fan above them spun lazily, scattering the warm air. The light flickered as a cloud passed the setting sun. Jack’s hands moved again, slow, deliberate — the familiar chords of You Are My Sunshine filling the small room with nostalgia thick enough to touch.

Jack: quietly “My old man used to play this too. Different key, same story. He couldn’t sing to save his life, but when he strummed this song, it felt like... forgiveness.”

Jeeny: “Forgiveness for what?”

Jack: shrugging “For not being perfect. For being present instead.”

Jeeny: “That’s what music is, isn’t it? The sound of imperfect love.”

Jack: “Or the memory of it.”

Host: Her eyes softened, catching the dim orange glow of dusk. She moved closer, the floorboards creaking beneath her bare feet. The sound of the guitar lingered — delicate, almost shy, as though afraid to disturb the ghosts it was awakening.

Jeeny: “You ever notice how people talk about their first instrument like it was a person?”

Jack: “Because it was. You don’t just learn music from it — you learn confession. It listens better than most people ever will.”

Jeeny: “Roy Orbison said his daddy taught him those chords. That’s not about music. That’s about inheritance. A melody passed down instead of money.”

Jack: smiling faintly “The kind of wealth that doesn’t depreciate.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. A father teaching a son not how to succeed, but how to feel.”

Host: The wind outside began to rise, carrying the scent of rain. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled — soft, like the sky remembering a promise.

Jack’s voice was low when he spoke next, the rhythm of his strumming matching the slow beating of memory.

Jack: “Funny thing — I hated that song when I was a kid. Thought it was corny. But one night, after my father died, I heard it on the radio. I swear, for a moment, it felt like he was sitting right next to me again.”

Jeeny: “Because music doesn’t die, Jack. It just changes listeners.”

Jack: “You think that’s what Orbison felt?”

Jeeny: “I think that’s why he wrote like he did — love, loss, longing. That guitar wasn’t a toy. It was the beginning of his language.”

Host: The rain finally began — gentle at first, then steady, tapping against the windows in a rhythm that seemed to echo the chords. The room filled with a golden hush — the sound of time slowing down long enough to listen.

Jeeny: “You ever think about what our parents teach us without meaning to?”

Jack: “All the time. My mother taught me silence. My father taught me noise.”

Jeeny: “And which one did you keep?”

Jack: softly “Both. I guess that’s why I still play.”

Jeeny: “You know, ‘You Are My Sunshine’ isn’t really a song about love. It’s about fear — the fear of losing what makes you sing. Maybe that’s why it stays with people.”

Jack: “Because it’s simple truth. The kind that hides in lullabies.”

Host: The light flickered again — the last of the day giving way to the quiet blue of early night. Jeeny sat beside him now, her shoulder brushing his. The melody drifted between them, fragile but unbroken.

Jeeny: “It’s strange, isn’t it? A six-year-old with a guitar — too young to understand heartbreak, but already learning how to hold it.”

Jack: “That’s childhood. We imitate love before we understand it. And somehow, that imitation becomes the real thing.”

Jeeny: “Do you think that’s why we keep coming back to the songs we learned as kids? To remind ourselves of who we were before life complicated the chords?”

Jack: smiling faintly “Yeah. Simpler chords, same emotions. Fewer mistakes, but just as much heart.”

Host: He paused, his hand hovering over the strings, then let a single note linger in the air — soft, imperfect, alive. Jeeny closed her eyes, listening — really listening — the way people do when silence starts to sound like memory.

Jeeny: “It’s beautiful how music carries people. That a song written decades ago can find you right when you need it.”

Jack: “You think that’s coincidence?”

Jeeny: “No. I think songs are alive. They travel through time looking for the right ears.”

Jack: quietly “Then I guess I found mine.”

Jeeny: smiling “And I found mine.”

Host: The rain softened, the sound fading into the distance. The room felt smaller now, but safer — like a shelter built out of melody and shared memory.

Jack set the guitar down gently on the couch, its body catching the faint lamplight like a heartbeat resting between songs.

Jeeny: “You know, that quote — it’s more than nostalgia. It’s an origin story. The birth of an artist, but also the birth of connection. A father teaching a son a song about light, in a world that would one day be full of shadows.”

Jack: “Yeah. And somehow, that light keeps echoing.”

Jeeny: “Because it’s not just in the voice — it’s in the hands that remember.”

Jack: “And the hearts that still listen.”

Host: The camera would linger on them — two silhouettes in the soft glow of a lamp, the guitar resting between them like an unspoken truth. Outside, the storm moved further away, leaving the scent of renewal.

And as the scene faded into quiet, Roy Orbison’s words would echo softly, carried by the sound of distant thunder:

“When I was six years old, Mom and Dad gave me a guitar for my birthday, and Daddy taught me the chords to ‘You Are My Sunshine.’”

Because sometimes,
the first song we learn
isn’t just music —
it’s memory.

A light we carry forward,
long after the hands that taught us
are gone.