The Eye of the Storm

They say the eyes are the windows to the soul. I prefer to think the eyes are the windows to the storm. My dad’s eyes are green and murky with hidden meaning behind each streak of brown. The waters flow silently and secretly, but when the storm comes, his wrath and temper take control. His voice cracks like thunder. His frantic motions startle like lighting and we are left bewildered and docile. The storm subsides and again the sun emerges.

My little sister is calm and quiet. She’s never the one to show what she’s feeling. Her eyes are a beautiful honey brown, much like my other sister and my eyes, although hers are always smiling. Her thick luxurious lashes clump together like mountains when she cries. Clouds roll in and the rain pours silently. After bottling her emotions they finally swell releasing a storm of rage, a storm of quiet guilt.

My other sister’s eyes are sadder, lonelier, but still just as beautiful. Like a tornado, destruction follows in her wake. She breathes in a patient sigh, but once provoked the winds start to howl and rise like her voice. The levels of her anger and fury burst through at different points of the storm. Fearing her outrage we hide behind clenched jaws and pursed lips. Our hollow expressions are left.

My mother’s eyes were once young, beautiful, and indulgent. Now they are noiseless. Her tears are hushed, but her storm is like hale. It’s destructive, and at times beyond repair. Her eyes are unfaithful and unforgiven. Her storm still lingers. Eventually the sky will part and heal, but for now her clouds still reign overhead obscuring the peace.

My eyes are puddles on a sidewalk after a rainstorm. They are deep and inexcusable. Like the water, I reflect what others see. I am independent but undecided. I try to move with my own feet but the current moves me in other directions. Flowing isn’t always so easy. Yes I am needed in my family, but being so heavily relied on burdens me. My eyes tire of this routine. They want to see change. They want to forgive, but instead of windows they are much like locked doors. Waiting to see what’s inside the heart people try to pry the locks, but they will not open. My storm has not raged just yet. Eventually it will.