Everyone in my family has the same eyes. My mom, my dad, and my three sisters; two dull brown circles that add nothing to an almost blank canvas. At home, I am not self conscious. At school I become self aware of the bright displays bouncing from eye to eye: Hazel, iced-blue, and lime-green.

At the lunch table I glance at my friend and peer into a winter’s storm. Different hues of light blue parade around her pupils. In these eyes, I see the seasons. To the left I notice a warm swamp in the spring time, dripping as the moisture of the rain overhangs the leaves. To the right I see what looks as the fall. Maybe a drive through the woods in the bone crunching cold. The leaves still in the process of detaching their root from each branch.

These eyes tell stories, stories that my own will never tell. In my eyes, the leaves are crunched, like a used paper bag. The skies are ominous, and mud coats the once beautiful grassy meadows. My eyes will never be a winter’s storm, or fall drive. I need to learn to appreciate the deep muds that slump and sink into my boots. These muds are mine.