Her face was brown, dirty. Or maybe it was clean and its roughness looked dirty. Her face was brown too, and her jacket, the hood hiding most of her hair. Even her lips were brown. Her face in entirety was brown and dirty looking, save her eyes. 

The white stood out startlingly from the rest, and swimming in the milky spheres were irises that were not sure if they were blue, green, or maybe even more brown. The rims were blue, the centers green, and near the pupils debatably more brown could be just made out. 

Perhaps they told a story. The blue of the dreams she held close, soaring through the evening sky. The green for her dreams of living in a wilder place, escaping the city to freedom and nature. The hints of brown trying to overtake her wild dreams and make the same dull brown, maybe trying to remind her of a hard life that made her skin so dirty.

 The black of her pupils was the only black on the face, reminders that death waited at the end of every human journey. They held little power, overridden by two trapezoids, the top brighter than the other. 

Maybe they were reminders of the light ahead and the promise of a clean face someday. Hope that death isn't the end. A deeper knowledge that it isn't. 

If she wasn't brown who would she be? What story would her eyes tell? Maybe they would settle on one color, a certain color, a happy color. Blue, perhaps. Not the evening sky blue that was so strikingly beautiful, but a blue of clear water, a calm boat rowing quietly across a midday lake. Maybe they would be a golden amber, of joy and security. 

But if she weren't brown she wouldn't be her. And if her eyes were brown she wouldn't have hope. Maybe it would be better if she wasn't brown. But maybe she wouldn't be strong. Maybe it would be better if her eyes were brown. Maybe she wouldn't fight false hope. I think she was just right brown with hope eyes.