Five family members, three iris colors. My mother’s, brown and muddy like a Bayou swamp, complement a head of red hair. Not the red of a candy cane swirl, but rather sunset streaks. My eyes, a carbon copy of hers, are swampish as well, however, an army green glint flares under the right light. My dad has eyes of pale sapphire like a frozen lake—like icicle stalagmites. A crystal blue that shines cold but gives warmth. My sister’s, similar to his, look as if they belong to a grey wolf. They remind me of a faint winter’s sky; just blue enough to know it’s not grey. I suppose they contradict the countless strands of orange that dance like fire on her scalp. My brother, well, his eyes are a long shot from me and my mother’s mud, but nor is he in the same cold, blue club as my sister and dad. I look at photographs and see a saturated aqua of sorts, but when I take a glance at reality, they appear as if they were painted on by an artist’s brush of mixed teal and zircon. Makes sense that he’s an artist himself.