I’m somewhere high among white clouds between Copenhagen and Barcelona, on my way back home to the latter. Suspended at this altitude, I’m struck by a sentimental notion.

A short time ago, I said goodbye to my parents in front of the airport. They stood quietly, waving, while I disappeared into the building. I recall this picture. It’s a picture filled with affection. Gratitude. I’m grateful. They know this. My actions speak volumes, to be sure, even though I do nothing.

Perhaps this is why I discern, no, actually, I recognize and feel a stifling doubt: How can I be sure that they know? Have I thanked them? Then, I think: thanked them for what? At this point, I rise to my feet and retrieve my computer from my rucksack in the luggage compartment overhead.

My parents are older than me. That’s the usual way of things, but they’re older in a way revealing that there are bigger divides between some generations than others. They were among the Baby Boomers born in the ’40s.

I probably belong in the mathematically unknown generation known as X, which is also linked to Y. Somewhere in between. I’m too young for Douglas Coupland and far too old for Miley Cyrus. Somewhere between ‘just too late’ and ‘a little too early’ is how I’ve always perceived myself.

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