The eyes in my family all tell a story. Brock and my father have the same ones. They’re like a mudslide, all dark and dirty. My eyes, like a black hole, easy to get lost in, but not in the good way. Megan’s eyes are bright--boasting with blue. She always wears the same colored shirt to match them. And Blake, the oldest, has eyes that are hard to find. Even I, on my tip toes, can’t seem to get to the top of his 6’3” frame.

But my mother’s eyes, my mother’s eyes, they remind me of Mary Poppins purse, constantly providing more, even when you think there’s nothing left to give. Like a cherished chameleon, always changing. One day, they’re like a field of four leaf clovers, clovers that tell the story of a young Irish girl running in tall, green grass. The next day a cool, clear lake, like the moment when the sun hits the water just right and you can see the fish swimming below--so full of life. My mother’s eyes are summertime, my siblings gathered around the table on the deck, watching the sun set on the lake. With my family on the deck, the calming water, and my mother’s eyes that capture the moment.