Brown eyes

Passion, caffeinated

I used to hate my brown eyes. I wanted blue like my mother’s that reflected the sky and ocean. But brown is earth, brown is chocolate and tree trunks and old paper. Brown is dark enough to hide ancient stories under murky water, but not dark enough to paint a wasteland. Brown tells a story that includes the recessive but buries it deep within. A time capsule entombed beneath six feet of soft brown earth. A single speck of sand on the beach, cousin to all but clone to none. A smear of all the colors melted into one. A story that exists passively, so that when people call me a blue-eyed all-American girl, I smirk and say “not quite.” 

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