My family’s faces and personalities are highlighted by the color of our eyes. My father’s eyes are a dark brown. A charred brown like the color his lungs must be after smoking for 35 years. Despite his habits and hobbies, he’s never taken a sick day and expects us to do the same. Half a century stabs from his eyes when you break the rules. My mother’s eyes are a warm blue. Her eyes are like a lighthouse my family uses to light a way through the thick fog of sadness.

My brother’s eyes are hazel, straddling the line between my mother’s blissful blue and my father’s badass brown. Over time, the baby of the family is being molded into a shadow of our dad as the baby blue fades. Like my father, he likes getting work done and likes arriving before the sun rises. Like my mother, he dances around and makes up songs to cure our boredom.

My eyes. My eyes are a cold blue. A silvery blue that became my defense. It hides my warmth from all who don’t deserve it. Strangers and those who lie to me get my dull, emotionless blue. Those who attempt to hurt my family get my frigid, distrustful blue. Those who prove they are worthy of my trust and admiration get my bright, beautiful blue.