In my family everyone’s eyes are different. Dakota’s eyes are as clear as the sky when all you can see is a never ending piercing blue. His eyes are like the snow in winter, bringing out the youthfulness in people, along with a delicate kind of grace. My eyes are a different kind of color. The pupil is surrounded by a complex system of coloring; each ring is a different color: blue, green, brown, blue, green, brown. They go around and around each other like my own miniature milky way galaxy. Father’s eyes are dark and scary. His eyes are black holes. Weaving in and out of each other, there is a structural system of the fearsome, furious, and fiery anger, instead of being filled with emptiness.
Now my mother's eyes are ones you can look into all day and never get bored. One second her eyes may be the color of roasted chestnuts, roasted chestnuts which steal the spotlight on the cover of a Christmas Catalogue. The next second, her eyes spring to life. The youthful eyes bring another kind of comfort, the kind that when you are sad, lonely, or even in need of a pick me up, they are there to always radiate the humor she has stowed away. Then other times, Mom’s eyes are a dark brown, where they just cry the tears they have been holding when she wants no one to ever see, when the pain and hurt just overwhelm the ducts they live in, and overflow with one simple crack in her dam. And over time: Father’s eyes have seemed to fall deeper and deeper down the dark abyss, Dakota’s eyes have stayed as crystal as ever, my very own eyes grow even more universal and abstract every second, and Mom, her eyes have somehow become to grow even more warm, even more sparkling, and even more sorrowful.
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