My dad’s eyes are a weathered brown. The brown of his leather work boots that he laces up every morning aside his brown coffee. The brown of a poorly-made oatmeal cookie that spent a little too much time in the oven.
My brother’s eyes are so dark he says they’re almost black. They’re like dark chocolate wrapped around the caramel center in his favorite ice cream. He says they’re nothing like dad’s, but when the sun shines down on his face, I think they start to look like my dad's work boots, just the muddier parts.
My mother’s eyes are light blue. They are the first thing people notice about her—her crystal clear eyes. The blue of her nursing scrubs and sapphire jeweled necklace. They remind me of clear water on the coast of Flamenco beach and a cloudless sky on a sunny summer day.
My eyes want to be like my mother's. They’re blue in some places, like bright blue rain puddles pooled in a field of dark green grass. If I look hard enough, I can also find little brown streaks, little brown rivers running through that rainy grass. All the colors mix together and form a grey, like a sad stormy sky. My eyes are confused, they can’t just choose what color they want to be.