Sunshine
They untangle and gather the cables, then connect the machinery to batteries so the parade can get underway. Who is it for? Certainly not for you, although I fantasized you were thrilled with the attention. I agree to it because I need to cling to something that isn’t what is happening—the end of time. After three days of waiting for tests and recipients, I should have been relieved. For you and your battered body. For me and my exhausted optimism. I should have been relieved. I should have been.
We glide in slow motion, following the beep, sustaining the solemnity of the spectacle. Beep… Beep…Beep… For you, it was your Honor Walk. For me, it was the Via Dolorosa. For everyone else, a procession through long and wide corridors, into enormous elevators, and out to back rooms where scientific death rituals transpire.
I glance down the interminable hallway, searching for a vanishing point. I can’t locate it. It converges, somewhere far away. Busy, fuzzy figures in scrubs float in, float out. The beeps bounce off frigid, faded walls—disoriented frequencies with nowhere to go.
They push the bed and devices into the room and we surround you, cramming into the small space. I take my place to your left and sit. I grip your purple, swollen fingers. Moisés stands to your right, he says, “I love you, father. It’s okay, father.”
Your body bears another blow. The rubber tube deep inside you won’t budge as the doctor tugs and yanks. I clench my jaw and grit my teeth. I crush your hand, hard, harder. I long to say, Squeeze my hand, baby. But I am a stubborn, stupid woman and I tell myself, Don’t give the fucking gods the satisfaction. Not another. My gaze locks on the doctor’s coat: Logo, embroidered in red, UChicago, in black, Medicine. Nine days ago, I begged and offered my ambition as sacrifice, but I had forgotten the gods don’t make deals with false supplicants. I have failed you.
One brutality ceases; another begins.
Your eyes open. The blue irises fixate on the ceiling. You don’t see me or your son, but you look and look at the vacant air while you gasp and gasp. And gasp. They said it would take three minutes. They lied.
I must not disassociate. I must let you know I am here. I must reach you.
I say, “I’m going to sing now.”
They say, “Of course.”
You know the song. Pepa’s song. It’s the only one I know from beginning to end. I never told you I learned it from a 1980s commercial for mustard. Did you know it’s Louisiana’s state song? On our way to the veterinarian, you drove, sobbing. I rode in the back seat, cradling Pepa’s head, stroking her velvety, floppy black ears, singing it to her for the last time. After we left that small room, we embraced, we crushed each other, and I screamed into your chest.
You are my—my only—
I always choke on that word, and now I know why. Premature supplication is masochistic. I savor the taste of anticipatory emotion. As in, I enjoy hurting my own feelings. Hello, imaginary sorrow, I have been waiting for you.
They say hearing is the last thing to go, so I hope your musician ears are appreciating my dissonant requiem.
Please… Please don’t take my—
They call it.
They roll you out.
They take you away.
I was wrong.
Time began, not ended, at four fifty-five p.m.
Teresita (Teri) Carson is a Mexican visual artist, writer, filmmaker, and educator. Her films have screened internationally, and her screenplays have received multiple awards. She resides in Chicago and is a 2026/2027 Arts Club of Chicago Fellow. More of her work can be found at teresitacarsonvaldez.com.
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