Like a deer in headlights, my mother’s eyes are bright, bold, and blue. The taste of ice water hitting a dry tongue. Looking over glaciers who hold their head high. My father’s hold a darker green, while flecks of hazel peer through, like a fishnet; holding back. A muddy swamp you come across in a clearing of brush. My brother’s eyes are just as my father’s, holding secrets wrapped in a small almond eye. His eyes are like looking through the window once the snow had melted, a spring green, yet dirt hiding under thin grass.

I, however, am the wild card. My mother always tells me that my eyes decide themselves, each day picking up a new appearance. One day, they could be as grey as fog, a cloud hung low, laying a blanket over the ground. Others I believe my true color is there, too shy to out show the rest. Yet, some days, when it feels comfortable and confident, it shines through. Like a dirty pond, sunlight illuminating the water, allowing bits and pieces of the bottom floor to appear. A more prominent feature that I cannot seem to shake, a chunk of hazel in just my right eye. Intricate, yet appearing as though a glob of brown was thrown in by mistake.