My mother and her father had blue eyes. They were a watery blue, like the bay in August, sometimes almost grey. Those blue eyes could peer right into my soul and pick out a truth or a lie in an instant. Their blue eyes were thoughtful and loving, and could drop me to my knees.
My husband has one brown eye and one green. The brown eye is gentle, full of love and tenderness. The green eye turns brighter green when he is miffed and dull if he is hurting. His eyes portray every emotion.
One son has eyes of deepest brown, chocolate colored eyes that reflect his inner kindness. The other son has hazel eyes like my own, rimmed in amber, that flash when inspiration strikes him. All of their children have blue eyes like their mother's or other grandma's. Their bright blue eyes can make you melt when they tilt their heads. Please, Grandma? How can anyone say "no" to those big blue eyes.
My dog, and both of my grand-dogs, have eyes so dark they appear almost black. So expressive, more than many humans.
I confess to a weakness of eyes of any color. I guess it is because I see beyond the pigment. Because I have so much concern with my own vision, I notice closely the eyes of others. While the smile or the voice may betray you, the eyes never will.
I've met people who will smile only with their mouths, their eyes flat and uncaring. With others, one can see the mischief behind their eyes, or the love or the lust, or the happy glitter of friendship. You can see your joke tickled their funny bone by the sparkle in the eyes, not by the half-hearted chuckle. You recognize longing or hatred by the eyes as much as by the gestures that accompany the words.
As I go in for yet another eye exam and yet more laser treatments and worry, I wonder if this doctor can make my eyes blue for a change. Maybe blue eyes will help me to look into the future like Mom or Grandma Hess, or make me irresistible like my grandkids pleading stares. Probably not.
It isn't the color of the iris that is important. It's what's behind them.
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