Dribble. Dribble. Dribble. Stop.

I've thought about that moment a lot these past few months.

It was this kid in my neighborhood. I'd guess that he is 16 or 17. I see him often, taking walks around the block by himself.

It's strange to see a teenager taking a walk alone. Not looking at a phone, not headed to a friend's house, no other reason (it seems) than being outside.

Sometimes he's got some fly basketball shorts on. Sometimes it's jeans.

Sometimes he's just walking, but today he's was dribbling a basketball as he walked the sidewalk. No moves, just a steady bounce.

Dribble. Dribble.

But when he got to our house and saw me on the front porch: Stop. He picks up his dribble.

He nods. Quick, polite smile. I wave and smile back as he walks the sidewalk in front of our house, basketball resting on his hip.

He makes his way around the corner. I'm not sure if or when he started to dribble again.