There are two hundred and sixteen steps
from our driveway to Farmer Dell’s house.
I slip through the last forty-three
because he hasn’t spread any sand or salt.
Maybe he doesn’t want company.
I knock on the outside door,
and step back down to the walk
and wait. I hear heavy footsteps inside,
and the door opens
just wide enough for Mr. Dell’s face to show.
“What do you want?” he asks.
“I’m Mimi Oliver.”
I shift to my other foot. “We’re neighbors.”
“What do you want?”
“Well . . . we’re shoveling, and there’s a lot of snow,
and it’s hard shoveling all that snow.”
“Why’d ya come here, then?”
Farmer Dell has exactly the growl I imagined,
his nose hooks over his mouth,
and his eyebrows are thick and bushy,
like moths nesting on his forehead.
“I was wondering if . . .”
He stares. He’s going to make me ask.
“. . . we could borrow your snowblower.”
“I don’t give my things out to strangers. What do you think I am—
a charity?”
“N-no.”
“Is that all?” Farmer Dell asks, and starts to shut the door.
“Wait,” I say. “Is that boy here?”
“What boy?”
“The one who was playing with Pattress.”
And just then, Pattress pushes the door open
all the way with her nose.
When she sees me, she wags her tail and barks happily.
“Hi, Pattress! Do you want a snowball?” I ask.
Her ears stand up at snowball,
and she throws her head back, barking.
“So, is he home?” I ask.
“There’s no boy here.”
“Well, maybe when he comes home we can play with Pattress.”
Mr. Dell’s eyes narrow.
“You go home now,” he says, and shuts the door.
Pattress barks behind it
for her snowball.
I turn around and walk
two hundred and sixteen steps
back home. Mama and Papa
have finished the driveway,
so I shovel a path to the back door.