Yes, my first memory of singing, in general, was of a Christmas

Host: The city was quiet beneath a veil of snow, each streetlight haloed in a soft, golden glow. Inside a small, dimly lit café, the air was heavy with the aroma of coffee and the faint melody of an old Christmas song drifting from a dusty speaker. Jack sat by the window, his grey eyes reflecting the frosted glass, his hands wrapped around a cup that had long since gone cold. Jeeny entered, her dark hair damp from the snow, her eyes carrying the warmth of something ancient, something that still believed.

She took the seat across from him, and for a moment, the only sound was the distant voice of a choir — a child’s voice, clear and trembling with innocence.

Jeeny: “Do you hear it, Jack? That’s the same kind of song Christina Perri talked about… her first memory of music, of connection. Isn’t it strange how something so simple — a Christmas song — can hold the beginning of who we are?”

Jack: “Strange, maybe. But it’s not magic, Jeeny. It’s just conditioning. You hear a song enough as a child, it gets wired into your brain. You associate it with comfort, family, maybe even safety. That’s not spiritual, it’s just psychology.”

Host: The lights flickered, the café’s neon sign humming faintly. A couple in the corner laughed, their laughter echoing off the walls like a distant bell. Jeeny’s fingers brushed the edge of her cup, tracing a circle, as if searching for something she couldn’t quite name.

Jeeny: “But isn’t that the point? That something as ordinary as a song can reach the deepest part of you — before you even have words for it? That’s not just conditioning, Jack. That’s memory written in feeling.”

Jack: “Feeling doesn’t make it truth. You can feel something profound about a commercial jingle if it plays enough times in your childhood. Doesn’t mean it’s meaningful.”

Jeeny: “You really think meaning can be reduced to repetition? Then why do people cry when they hear a Christmas song from their childhood — even the ones who’ve lost everything? There’s something in those melodies that carries the echo of who we used to be.”

Host: A pause fell between them, long and tender. Outside, the snow thickened, muting the world. Inside, the song changed — “Silent Night.” The notes hung in the air like ghosts, fragile, luminous.

Jack: “You’re romanticizing it. That’s what you do. You take a simple human reaction and turn it into faith. The world isn’t built on memory or music, Jeeny. It’s built on cause and effect, on what we can measure.”

Jeeny: “And yet, here we are — surrounded by things we can’t measure. Love, nostalgia, the way a single note can make your heart ache. You call that illusion. I call that proof.”

Jack: “Proof of what? That we’re wired to find comfort in patterns? That we cling to the past because the present terrifies us?”

Jeeny: “Proof that our souls remember what our minds forget.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his jaw tightening, his eyes shadowed by the glow of passing car lights. The steam from the espresso machine hissed like a sigh between them.

Jack: “You talk about souls as if they’re real, Jeeny. But they’re just metaphors — pretty ones. What you’re describing is just neural memory, emotional imprinting. When you’re a kid, everything is heightened. The smell of pine, the sound of bells, the warmth of your mother’s voice. You connect that to the song. It’s not the song — it’s the context.”

Jeeny: “But context is the soul of a memory. It’s the world built around the note. When I hear those songs, I’m not just remembering sounds — I’m remembering how it felt to believe. To believe in something larger than myself. Maybe that’s what Christina meant — that her first connection to music was her first connection to wonder.”

Host: A truck rumbled past outside, its lights streaking across the snow like a brief, golden wound. Jack’s face softened for a moment, the rigid lines melting into something weary.

Jack: “Wonder is dangerous. It blinds people. Makes them believe in things that aren’t real. Look at history — at how music has been used to manipulate. National anthems, propaganda songs — they can make millions march into war. Same emotions you’re glorifying.”

Jeeny: “But it’s not the music that corrupts, Jack — it’s the intention. Music itself is pure. It only amplifies what’s already in us. When the Berlin Wall fell, do you know what they played? ‘Wind of Change.’ That song carried hope, and it moved a generation. That’s not manipulation — that’s humanity finding its voice.”

Host: The words lingered, heavy and shimmering. A faint draft slipped through the door, stirring the napkins on the counter. Jack’s eyes flicked toward the window, where a small child pressed his nose to the glass, humming along to the same Christmas song still looping through the café.

Jack: “Hope is a dangerous drug. It’s sweet, but it leaves you dependent. People sing about peace every year, and still, the world burns.”

Jeeny: “And yet they keep singing, don’t they? Maybe that’s the miracle — not that music changes the world, but that it keeps us from giving up on it.”

Host: Silence. A long one. The kind that feels like the world is holding its breath. The snow outside had deepened into a quiet, silver world. Inside, Jack looked at Jeeny with something between frustration and recognition.

Jack: “So you’re saying the point isn’t the song itself — it’s what it reminds us of.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The first songs we connect to — they shape how we listen to life. They remind us that there’s something worth listening to. Even when the world goes silent.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice trembled slightly, her eyes shining with an unshed tear. Jack looked away, his breath fogging the window. He watched the child outside tug at his mother’s hand, laughing. For a fleeting second, a smile ghosted across his lips — the first one that night.

Jack: “You really think a memory like that can survive everything? All the noise, the cynicism, the… adulthood?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because those memories aren’t stored in our minds. They’re stored in our hearts. You can grow old, bitter, alone — but then one song plays, and suddenly you’re five again, sitting by the tree, watching the lights, believing the world is kind.”

Host: The song ended. A new one began — softer, older, less known. The café felt smaller now, the world beyond the window fading into a quiet blur. Jack’s shoulders relaxed, and he let out a slow sigh.

Jack: “You make it sound so easy — like faith is just nostalgia.”

Jeeny: “Faith is memory with love in it.”

Host: Her words hung in the air like snowflakes, delicate but impossible to ignore. Jack’s hand moved almost unconsciously toward the table, brushing against hers. He didn’t pull away.

Jack: “Maybe… maybe that’s why I stopped listening. Not because I stopped believing in music — but because I stopped believing in what it reminded me of.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s time to listen again.”

Host: The lights dimmed further, leaving only the flicker of a candle between them. Outside, the child was gone, the street empty, but the echo of his laughter seemed to linger. Jack closed his eyes, letting the song fill the spaces that words could not reach.

The camera of the moment pulled back — the two of them sitting in the warmth of memory and music, framed by a world made gentle by snow and silence.

And somewhere, beneath all the noise of time and logic, something in both of them remembered how to sing.