My life is an ongoing sometimes

My life is an ongoing sometimes. Sometimes I can't wait to come home, and sometimes I can't wait to leave. Sometimes I look out at the trees and wonder why the wind doesn't blow all of them in the same direction. Sometimes I can't help myself from staring aimlessly at the seams in my jeans, for hours, they make me think of the saddest things.

Sometimes I stare out the car window at the people parked beside until they look back. Sometimes I don't look away, and sometimes I can't tell who gets more uncomfortable. Sometimes they smile at me and I wonder if they are naturally friendly, or just faking it. Sometimes, but very rarely, I smile back.

The apple tree in my backyard sometimes blooms, and sometimes pretends it is not an apple tree, and has no reason to bloom. When this happens, sometimes I go out and hang my Christmas ornaments on them, just for spite.

Sometimes, when I see people on the street, I think about why they picked out the particular arrangement of clothes they are wearing. Sometimes in the morning, I don't pick them out at all, just blindly choose with my hand and hope it matches. When it doesn't, I wear a coat. Sometimes I pick the outfit out ahead of time, and then suffer in my dreams wondering whether it was a good match. I wonder if these people have someone who picks out their clothing for them. Sometimes I consider that one man may be colorblind, or have some unexplainable preference for olive green. Sometimes I consider that they are escapees from the insane asylum down the street.

In the summer, sometimes I don't fill up the pool, and leave it empty there. I like to climb down the ladder in the deep end and spread a checkered blanket. Sometimes I bring stuffed animals and tea, and pretend that I am five years old again. When it's really really warm, I convince the teenage boys next door to haul by bed down there, and sometimes I get a better nights sleep then I get all year. Sometimes it rains.

Sometimes I don't mow my lawn, and it grows and it grows until the next door neighbor man does it for me, as if he is tainted by association. Sometimes I don't spray my trees for worms, and the apples and the berries go bad, and I have to run outside and shoo away the birds when they land. I can't help but worry that they wont survive it. Sometimes I can't help but worry that they'll never come back.

Sometimes in the winter I dig tunnels through the snow, like I'm still a kid, like my parents are waiting inside with hot chocolate to warm me up, perhaps even a fire in the grate. I know they're not, but it's nice to think about. Sometimes I like to build mountains of snowballs, as if I have an opponent just beyond that ridge, and he'll come marching up one day. I'll be prepared if he ever does. I'll defeat him like he was never defeated before, and then maybe we'll get married.

In winter the streets are empty. No one likes to take long meandering walks in the cold. It sounds nice, from a comfy seat and a warm fire, but stepping into that chill stifles any wish for a midwinter's dream. Sometimes I do it anyway. From the sidewalk you can see the silhouettes through the curtains, the warm light from families and happy homes. Or at least they look like happy homes, sometimes. I know well enough that plenty of homes aren't the slightest bit happy. Plenty of homes are just houses, and not homes at all.

Sometimes the trees in my front yard get piled up with snow, and they look bundled up just like me, warm and cozy underneath their fuzzy blankets. The ice coated branches look more beautiful than charming, they look dressed up for a ball, instead of settled in for the shivery months.

These "sometimes"s make me think of my younger days, when things were definite. When I would always eat broth for dinner in winter, and always fill the pool in summer. When all homes were homes and they were happy. I would always dig tunnels through the snow and my parents would always be inside, waiting with hot chocolate. The trees would always bloom.

Sometimes I prefer my less decided ways, sometimes I choose not to bloom myself, and why berate the trees, if they wish to lead a sometimes life?