Four eyes. Nerd. My family has heard these insults, tossed like crumpled paper into a wastebasket.

My glasses are sleek, stylish, like a hotel room in New York. They scream fashion and upkeep. Brendan’s glasses are tired, and athletic. His glasses are black and red, as fast as the stripes on a sports car. My mom’s glasses are the type of glasses to ask you, “How is your day going?” She has very kind and sympathetic glasses.

My dad’s seeing glasses are on a whole different level. As black as night, with about as much hope and sympathy as the void, they exclaim, “Respect me, I am the leader here.” His glasses tolerate no nonsense. But, my dad’s reading glasses are different. They are old and tired, searching for a break and relaxation. They are the kind old man in every neighborhood; they are the caring father figure needed in every life. My dad’s glasses are the two sides of him.