No one in my family has brown eyes. My sister’s eyes are the color of an old oak’s leaves, shimmering in the sunset. They are a beautiful emerald--if they were the jewel they would be fit for the queen’s crown. She has eyelashes like a desert plant: short and stubby, but persistent. My littlest brother, his eyes are a grey, a grey like the down of a wren, but warm, like dawn after a rainy night. My in-between brother has eyes with a soul. A soul of a veteran, seen one too many deaths-- a kindred soul that is too caring for this world, a blue too lucid, too loving, too innocent. His eyelashes keep out the dirt from his eyes like his soul keeps out the dark  from this world. 
But my mother’s eyes. My mother’s are a clear cerulean. They are two glimmering portals to another world, cleaner than the crystal caribbean. They are two oceans; they tell secrets. They are the sea, they are the 8th wonder of the world. They hold coral reefs and great white sharks and the mermaids, the mermaids whose songs lure sailors to their end. Her eyes are a fable, passed down the generations. The fables that tell secrets and hiden corals reefs and the kings of the sea and mermaids, the magical mermaids that only the lucky ones