"Politics isn't a storm, dear. It’s the weather. It’s been raining and shining in turns since I was a girl in pigtails. Back then, we fought over the borders and the bread lines, just like they fight over the airwaves now. The actors change, the stage gets a fresh coat of paint, but the script? The script is older than any of us." She leaned forward, the wood of the chair groaning in protest. "The problem isn't that people have opinions. Lord knows, everyone’s entitled to a shout. The problem is that they’ve forgotten how to listen to the silence between the arguments. When I was younger, we’d sit on the fence—literally and figuratively—and talk to the neighbor who voted for the other side. Not to convert them, not to shame them, but just to make sure they were still human. Now? Everyone’s so busy trying to win a game that doesn't have a final whistle." She smoothed the newspaper over her knees, her expression softening into a mask of weary wisdom.