I Was Adolescent

I was adolescent.  There was nothing I could do about it.

I asked my grandmother, when she was still young, about two boys.

"I like them both, Grandma.  I don't know what to do."

"Oh?"  She didn't lead me.  She knew I needed to riff; and I did so, in a stream of consciousness that tickled almost like music.  

Mystery.  I am sure now, Grandma wouldn't have an answer for the question--even for herself.

"Am I in love?"  

Who do I love?   

An underdeveloped hidden picture.

It was awkward freedom, talking out loud about this and to her.  My mind was goopy with "common-sense."   (I'm sure the term should not exist in the decade-or more-when old children morph into adulthood.) 

Although it was short, I've not forgotten the conversation.  

"Grandma, I like two boys and I don't know which one more.  I laugh a lot around one boy.  I feel funny.  I like being funny.  The other boy can lift me [horizontally] over his head."

"To me," Gramma said, "it sounds like you know exactly how you feel about this."

"Yes,"  I confidently smiled, "I love the boy who can lift me above his head."