You know that thing where you call your mom or dad and they start telling you about their day, and you’re like, "That’s cool, Daddio," and then they drop something in there that just… hangs? Like, my dad was telling me about the latest protest, right? The one for the climate thingy, and he’s been going to these since I was in diapers, probably before. He still goes, rain or shine, even with his bad hip, bless his stubborn heart. And he was saying how he used to see all the same faces, the old guard, you know? Like a family reunion, but with more shouting. And now… he says he barely knows anyone. He said it so matter-of-factly, like he was talking about the price of milk. No drama, just observation. And you’re sitting there, thousands of miles away, on your lunch break, trying to sound engaged while actually thinking about that mountain of paperwork on your desk. And you think, “Huh. That's… interesting.” But it doesn't *hit* you, you know? Not like it should. You’d think hearing your elderly father, the guy who practically raised you on a picket line, say he feels like a stranger among his own kind, would make you feel something big. A pang of guilt, maybe, for not being there, for not carrying the torch. Or a rush of anger, or sadness. But it was just… *poof*. Flat. Like a deflated balloon. You feel kinda crummy for feeling nothing, and then you feel crummier for feeling crummy about feeling nothing. It’s a whole meta-crummy situation. I don’t know. Maybe it’s the distance, the phone static. Or maybe it’s just the constant low hum of everything else going on. The bills, the kid’s school project, the never-ending emails. And you just… compartmentalize. Shove it in a box labeled “Dad’s Sad Protest Observations” and move on to asking if he remembered to take his meds. Which, let’s be real, he probably didn’t. And then you feel the guilt, but it’s about the meds, not the dwindling protest comrades. What a mess, huh? Sometimes you wonder if you’re just a giant, walking coping mechanism. Lol. Guess I am.