My brother’s eyes, clever and quick, are a soft hazel. The light kind, the sea blue and grass green. They gaze quite quickly, quite quickly, at the computer screen as Minecraft opens.
     My mom’s eyes, intense and talkative, are a gunmetal blue. The tall, blue streaks dancing a waltz with the small, white streaks. They watch with wonder, with wonder, at the world not going her way. 
      My dad’s eyes, thinking and caring, are a storm grey-blue. The grey is dominate and the blue is like a subtle glow. They stare with intense intent, with intense intent at the flowers he was about to plant into rocky, clay ground.
      But my eyes. My eyes are different. My eyes are not a sea blue and grass green hazel, gunmetal blue, or storm grey-blue. My eyes are a brown wood stained table. My eyes are like a dark chocolate from Valentine's Day--speckled with barely noticeable black and gold streaks  until you get close enough, close enough when my glasses are off. A thin, black ring holds the color as prisoner, yet the color does not mind.
       They are trusting of the world around them when the mind, cleverly, knows better. They watch every move their friend’s make as they dance across the floor, hands linked around each other.
       They are always full of stories. They are always full of wonder. They are always my best way to rely minute emotion to those around me. They sing with joy at the sight of a book, devouring words like a dog who has gotten a treat. These eyes are mine and I am theirs.