Personal Narrative: Oriole Fies

Oriole Fies

“SNIP.”

Another tuft of hair frees itself to flutter down.

“SNIP.”

When it lands, it breaks apart like a dandelion puff on the linoleum floor.

“SNIP.”

The next little clump of auburn hair spirals down, caught by the brisk breeze of the stand fan. It misses the tiled floor and lands on the leather handle of the wheelchair. I watch it as it performs a short waltz before sliding onto the floor. There is the sound of ripping velcro and I raise my arms as the barber’s gown falls off my shoulders, revealing my red wool sweater. I got the sweater on my 19th Christmas from Jared, my brother - 16 at the time. Now I look up and see the almond eyes off the reflecting glass; tired but focused. I push off and make my way out the door into

When I got to order my prosthesis, it was a very difficult decision. The pamphlet I used, and that is now lying under a glass on my nightstand, outlined my various options. There are still weeks until the two custom built legs will arrive. With a red sleeved hand I cover my eyes. Minutes pass with me still, soaking the sleeve to a darker crimson before finally, like a camping canteen gone dry, the stream of tears stop. I wipe the mucus running from my nose with the cold wet sleeve. I think it’s time I visited Roselyn. Its pretty easy by this point to find my way around the main hospital complex. Two rights to the elevator, a ride to level three, and a left to ICU. I stop outside the blue door and then slide over to the dark window. I use my palms to adjust my hair so I look good just in case she does wake up. They say she won’t, but I do it anyways, every time. The doctor told me on the Saturday of the first week that the CT scan did not give a hopeful report. She wasn’t likely to open her beautiful hazel eyes to the world. The edge of the wheelchair connected with the door and I slip into the dark room. I slide my hand along the wall and flick the light switch, illuminating her personal room. The place has a lone chair and and a table with one of those cheap hotel vases. I move over to the bed and rest my hand on her masked face. The ECG monitor clicked, the only outward facet of her life. I run my hand up to her forehead and over the dark line made from the basketball court floor. It was during the balmy summer days after classes had ended. Back when we used to go to the community centre, grab a ball from the back room and play quick matches with anyone who was there. Sometimes 3 on 3 or maybe 5 on 5 if it was a busy day. I went up for a dunk that evening and she grabbed my legs. On the way