Everybody in our family has bright blue eyes that experience entirely distinct phenomena. My father’s eyes are scrap paper. My father’s eyes flow with creativity. As if a light was flickering every five seconds with ideas. Slow tunes resonating left to right. His eyes were the blue of every dancing sky, infinite hues illuminated by newborn light. Andrew’s eyes were fire in water. Blue fire enhances his brilliant passion for success. Parker’s eyes are a grandfather clock. Each circumstance, good or bad, is embedded in them. Although some pain has blurred out the clear brightness, his eyes are still the ocean: smooth, introverted, and warm. His eyes are calming, like a dollop of frozen butter sizzling on a freshly toasted slice of bread. 

But my mother's eyes. My mother’s eyes are birds. They move quickly, with an air of optimism. They resemble ripples of the ocean waters, early morning skies, and baby blue hydrangeas. They are a bright blue yet seem dark gray when her spirit is lost behind them. They hold onto her youth, and their laid-back manner is obvious. Although she has wrinkles in her smile, she contrasts her maturity with childlike joy. Her eyes are as bright as the sun itself, shining with joy. They complement her loving personality and sweet smell. My mother has summer-like, luminous eyes. They provide me with support and affection, as well as hope and kindness. Her eyes lock onto mine, reading what mine are showing and instantaneously comprehending what I need.