The house is fallen, they will say. The line is broken in spite of the three brothers who followed me out of our mother’s womb. One too frugal and bigoted, one too stubborn and conservative, one too lazy and indifferent. The house is fallen, the end is come. Our father’s passing will not bring a single tear to our mother’s eyes, our mother who taught how not to cry. And yet our father’s weak tear ducts make us human from time to time. In the end he will be buried in a local cemetery where no one else from our family lies, and where no one ever will for we will scatter and spread our willful seed across to other places on the map, each with their own cemeteries. When the house is fallen they will want to know where I am, where I have been, and in spite of all my learnings I will never have the words to say who it is I am and what it is I wanted. They will never know nor would they care to understand—the tearless mother, the pain-addled father, the brothers whose distance keeps them civil and far away. They cater to their pain, I cater to mine. When the house is fallen, there will be no one left.