Fawn is just another shade of brown

            As I walk down the narrow dirt street, I realize, (not for the first time) that it feels like I am looking in the mirror.  A young girl smiles at me, revealing my dimples. An old man looks at me with my brown eyes. This is how it has always been, for me at least. I was born in the year 2194. They tell me that there used to be people with blonde or red hair and green, blue, or gray eyes; but that is no more since everything but brown has been wiped out. Since brown is the dominant gene, everything but brown has been wiped out. And when all of our features (hair, eyebrows, eyes, etc.) became brown, then height, weight, and details that made us look and feel like ourselves, disappeared. So, to put it simply, it feels as if I am that old man sitting on that bench. As if I am that little girl walking down the street. As if I am nothing.  I just wish that I could see bright colors, something that could shed some light onto my world. Which is why I am heading to my grandmothers house. I am a girl on a mission.

            I reach my destination. A small chocolate brown house with a stone walkway and caramel brown trim; a house that almost no one in my family ever enters. I take a deep breath to settle my nerves, and open the door. The smell of chamomile tea and day old pie envelope me, as I maneuver my way to the kitchen where my grandmother sits. I enter the room, and spot my grandmother immediately. Her light brown hair floats around her delicate face, and her wrinkled hands sit on her lap. She turns her face in my direction, eyes closed(for she is blind), but I know that she can see me. “Hello Fawn.” My grandmother says. Even our names are shades of brown. My mother’s name is  Tawny and my father’s name is Copper. “Hello grandmother.” I reply softly, turning away from the succulent pie; I came here today with a purpose. For several years my grandmother has tried to persuade me to see her great-grandmothers belongings, tons of stuff from the 2000’s. But every time, I refuse to see my grandmother’s, “Collection of history” as she calls it. No one ever wants to see it. I means really, what could be more boring? “Umm…grandmother, may I see your history collection?” I ask tentatively. Suddenly, for the first time in my 13 years, I see my grandmother open her eyes. They are a brilliant emerald green, with small flecks of gold on the inside, and outlined in a soft brown. They are gorgeous. “Why yes, of course!” she cries, overjoyed that someone finally wishes to see her great-grandmother’s collection. She stands and feels her way over to the living room. She sits down and pulls out a dusty cardboard box. She opens it, revealing a strange assortment of things. But I only see what I have thought about for as long as I can remember, a way to bring color into my life. A small white box labeled, “hair dye” sits untouched, and I pick it up. My  grandmother’s beautiful eyes are open, but see nothing. I could easily nab the dye. But I set it back in the box. My grandmother, I realize, is filled with all the color I need.