On his death bed, an old man asked for paper and a pencil and in bold strokes wrote “EITHER” before he died. “Ether,” his wife cried to his older son, “he needs ether.” The older son shook his head and responded, “Ma, it’s the twenty-first century. No one uses ether. Maybe he meant Oscar Wilde.” “Why?” Asked the younger son from the corner where he sat in an ashen cloth-covered chair. “Why would Dad refer to Oscar Wilde? He’s never read Oscar Wilde.” “You don’t know that,” the wife said. “He could have gotten it from a trivia card,” said the older son. The younger son sighed. The older son and the wife stood on either side of the bed looking down on the dead man while the younger son sat in the corner on the ashen colored chair. The room felt smaller to all of them.