My dad’s eyes are bright blue skies. As clear as New Zealand lakes. No other characteristic stands out more in the family portrait. The blues grab the wandering eyes in our crowd of browns and greys.

His eyes, like small sapphires hitting the light just right, are sharp and focused. They cut like knives on the receiving side. Beaming of bold, brave poise. Our eyes, soft like mud and clay hold no comparison at first. Smooth, sharp-edged sapphires drown in the suffocating mud. Overpowered by numbers, the beauty of blue diminishes.
His eyes of blue skies. His eyes of the clearest of lakes. His eyes of sharp, breath-taking sapphires. Everything pure must be dirtied by brown.