The Color of Our Eyes

I remember asking Archie about the sky.

It was a crisp day in September. The colors of Fall had begun embracing the leaves as they bid farewell to their lush summer green. We had wandered down a cobbled path that broke away from the park near our home. Dappled with sunlight, the recent rains had left puddles along the way. I could almost hear Aunty Ora yelling at us about our muddy boots.

As we trekked on our little adventure – Archie leading the way with a stick in hand – I came across a particularly large puddle.

Thought: Can a puddle be responsible for a spark of curiosity?

Conjecture: An apple spurred Newton’s quandary about gravity. So, a puddle doesn’t seem too far-fetched. 

The conversation I had with Archie around this puddle would show me a side of my older brother I hadn’t seen before – a part of him that was vulnerable…protected, perhaps.

I crouched next to it and studied my reflection amidst the orange of the leaves. They swayed in the soft breeze behind my head – like a lion’s mane, I thought at the time.

“Watchya doing there?” Archie asked.

I looked up to see Archie’s towering, but lanky, frame peering into the puddle. I pointed at it, and my finger must’ve disturbed the surface of the water because I remember laughing at our silly faces.

“Archie…” I said, “why does the sky look blue, but the leaves orange?”

“Well, they’re two different scientific phenomena Aisle,” he said, crouching next to me, “the leaves turn orange because we have shorter days in the winter months.”

Archie put down the stick and picked up a fallen leaf, twirling it between his fingers.

“This means that the production of chlorophyll – the green pigment that absorbs sunlight – slows down and eventually comes to a stop,” he continued, gently bouncing on the balls of his feet, “when there’s no more green, you get orange, or yellow, or even red!”

“And the sky?” I asked, still staring into the puddle.

“The sky…” Archie began. He looked at the leaf in his hand for a while, as if the answers were imprinted in its veins, and smiled.

Growing up, I knew that if anybody had the answers it would be Archie. It was like watching a magician. He’d wave a pencil, perhaps thumb through a worn dissertation, or roll a leaf between his fingers to get your attention. All the while he’d explain his observations, theorize on the available data, and express his adoration for the scientific method, until finally, he was ready for his prestige, his scientific reveal.

“The sky is a matter of light and atmosphere,” he grinned, disturbing the puddle with the leaf in his hand, “waves of light are blocked by the molecules present in our atmosphere.” 

“Molecules?” I asked, my eyes glazing over.

“Ah right…mmm, imagine the tiniest of orbs, racing across the sky,” Archie replied, scratching his head.

I looked up and wondered how nobody was talking about the molecules racing in the sky.

“Some light waves – think of them as silly strings of different colors – are shorter than others,” he continued, “and because these silly, wavy blue or green strings are shorter than their red or orange counterparts, they are easier to scatter. Which makes the sky appear blue – most of the time!”

He stopped for a second, gazing at our reflections in the puddle.

“Your eyes tell the same story, you know?” he said, a quiver in his voice.

“My eyes tell a story?” I remember asking him.

“A matter of evolution, melanin, and light – a million years in the making – all came together in one miraculous moment to give you the color in your eyes,” Archie beamed. “Isn’t it just so fantastic?”

“A million years…!” My eyes widened as I looked up at the sky, “yeah, that really is fantastic.”

“Dad told me about this… do you remember them, Mom and Dad?”

I shook my head.

“You were probably too young…” He continued with a nod. “Dad would always say, ‘Don’t forget how lucky we are, Archie, for all the pieces of life to have come together the way they did.’”

He paused, for a moment, before looking at me. “The color of your eyes is your history, little brother. Remember that.”

“My history…” I nodded at my reflection in the puddle admiring the flecks of golden brown, in a sea of green.

Archie hopped up at that moment, wiping his eyes.

“Let’s go home before Auntie O comes searching for us,” he laughed, “don’t get mud on your shoes!” And with that, he dashed ahead.

“Archie, wait for me!” I shouted after him as I tried to keep up.