Everybody in our family has them but dad. My brother’s eyes are brown, like the changing leaves in fall. And me, my eyes are hazel. They are warm as the blistering sun. They are eyes that enlighten the worlds almost extinct ecosystem. My mother’s eyes are blue. Like the bering sea. Dad’s eyes are green but they hide a secret. Each pair describes us in our own way, but only us three have the oval shape like grandpas.
       But my mother's eyes, my mother's eyes, like little rain drops, like blistering bright blue eyes and pretty because they match the blue sky, hard to look at because you see her pain, the memories of grandpa, like the past that no one wants to remember, is the visions that take you back, and you feel for her, the pain thats ever lasting and dad hiding it. The secrets, the pain, and Mama's eyes that are as cold as night.