Everybody in our family has different eyes. My Papa's eyes are like a lit up blowtorch, flaring blue flames. And me, my eyes are as brown as a newly grown tree. They rarely display rage. My sister Rebecca’s eyes are as brown as a muddy pond. My sister Julia’s eyes are a soft blue, filled with sweetness like a candy shop-- just opening. And Joseph, who is the youngest, has blue eyes as soft as his blanket that he drags around.

       But my mother's eyes, my mother's eyes, like little fresh speckled eggs, like swirls of cold, lumpy mud on a child’s face reminding me that she is full of life. Mesmerizing to look into when she is holding you, holding you and feeling safe. Her eyes are like a rope, pulling you in slowly and wrapping you up tightly and never letting go. The things our eyes have seen, have endured. The journey, the dreams, the visions, and Mama’s eyes that pull you in tight.