Getting pricked

I have a late appointment for doctor checkup and to get a flu shot. Talk to you’uns later.

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Another short hunk of Lover; this is what I was writing last evening before my weary body failed me and my eyes dimmed. This will probably be the last update for awhile because I am still putting ideas together and typing is slow.

The remainder of my day was spent in mostly mental fog; the past two weeks my emotions had run a gamut from mundane daydreaming boyhood to supreme elation to yearning near-manhood to near terminal fear to impending doom and now into a deep purple funk springing from relief of some of my fear and onto even direr fear of upcoming loneliness and hurt. Was I in love with Darla? That was a conundrum that puzzles me to this day many years after the fact. Can a 13 year old boy whose gonads had yet to fully mature possibly be in love? Could a kid who thought that the main differences between a boy and girl were physical attributes, be in love? Could the forlorn feelings of sorrow and the hurt in my breast not be love? Was sitting along a country lane beneath a dusty apple tree longing for dusk to settle in so I could once more be with her while tears streaked my cheeks with little rivulets of mud; was that love? Does love hurt? If so, I was probably in as much love as my limited years allowed.