My sister’s eyes are big, beautiful, blue. My eyes are deep, dark, blue. My mother’s eyes are lively, loving, green. My father’s eyes are pensive, careful, caramel.
My sister and I stand out. We broke away, act the way we want. She is light; I am dark. Her time is day, mine is night. We have blue eyes.
My mother is independent. Like a female polar bear she decides and does. She gardens, the smell of flowers follows. She cooks, warm cookies melt on the pan. All she wants is to be happy in her own way. My mother has green eyes, with flecks of brown.
My father is a stuffed bear. He is colossal but calm. Kind, quiet, knowing. He works around the house, I hear his tools. He is easily homesick, but will sacrifice for his family. My father has caramel eyes.
My sister and I are connected. Our eyes talk to each other. The television lets out loud and nasty noise, the bright lights give headaches, and the world is wild and perplexing. But our eyes meet and we understand, we talk. We have blue eyes.