Everyone in my family has good eyebrows. My brows are sharply shaped, like brown daggers, taken from the Greek ancestors before me. My mother’s are thin and light, like a wisp of light brown resting gently above her eyes. My brother’s are rounded and full, with a little growing in the middle. My sister’s are regularly waxed, making her brows clean cut and tamed.

But my fathers, my father’s are like big bushy caterpillars losing their color that used to be black as the night. They are coarse to the touch, with a sharp shape like mine. They poke your face when given a butterfly kiss. They are a one of a kind pair that cannot be tamed. They catch the falling snow when he is walking up the driveway, and it melts down his face as he comes in the door to greet his family.