Everybody in my family has different eyes. My mother’s are brown, like rich milk chocolate. But they can become red-brown, letting me know when I’ve done wrong. And me, my eye’s are hazel. With hints of green and gray. Daniel’s eyes are blue, almost gray. His eyes are the deep mysterious forest, covered in a foggy haze.
But my father’s eyes, my father’s eyes, like deep pools of fresh water, like bright blueberries freshly picked off of the vine in summertime, piercing like blue rock candy, yet sweet as they give off a sense of comfort when I come home crying, and dark, like something you’d fall into; crashing into the depths of the ocean. They are comforting and dark, like crashing into the ocean.