I ask, placing one foot in front of the other to show how little ground I'd cover. No, you may not, says Mother, who is my little brother. He's sure to say Yes, you may. Tommy gets jazzed and shouts Umbrella Steps are best, then helps himself to six.
Mother leans back out of reach.
The sun burns up the Road to Mother, melts my Keds on the driveway while I invent another step to tempt my brother into letting me get closer to Mother. He eyes my furry coat, my twitchy feet and nose, reluctant to grant anyone one of those. No, you may not, Mother declares. Stops me before I get within his shadow, holds up one hand like a crossing-guard's paddle, imitates a stern face. I watch what steps he allows the neighbor kids to take.