Happy Halfday.

Which is,
      as I now realize,
      an officially recognized holiday.

Six months _from_ birthday,
    six months _toward_ birthday,
                 exactly halfway
                 between one you
                    and the next—

    which is enough of an occasion for me.

I like the halfness of it.

Not because you’re anything less than whole.

Please.

You arrive—
    with the full force
    of a weather system.

No,
   I like Halfday
   because it gives me

   an excuse to love the middle.

The not-quite-birthday,
     the little marker,
   the private holiday.

Tucked between larger ones
       like it knows we’ll make
               our own ceremony.

And you know
    I’m a dangerous man
    when handed even the smallest ceremony.

I start thinking there should be a card.

Something sweet,
          probably too sincere,
          with one joke in the middle

          to keep me from becoming unbearable.

Something that says:

          I’m very glad
          the year has carried you this far.

          I’m very glad
          I get to meet you here,
             in the middle of it.

          I’m very glad
          there’s still another half
                     to watch unfold.

That was the card. (mostly)

Then there was the other thing.

Because I know you wanted that game.

Tennessee at Georgia Tech,
          your Yellow Jacket people,
                     the three BFFs
                   who know exactly
                 what kind of noise
       that day is supposed to make.

You tried to make it work.

You looked,
    you priced,
    you did the responsible thing.

Where wanting has to stand there
      and negotiate with the absurd little criminals
                              who run ticket markets.

And it didn’t come out reasonable.

Which is rude.

Also inconvenient,
     because I had already
     started picturing you there.

Not vaguely, specifically.

You with your people,
    in the middle
    of all that gold and white
    and old-fight-song electricity,
    grinning in that way you do
    when the day has finally become

    the day you were hoping for.

So,
   since this is Halfday,
   and since halves
   apparently give me permission
   to become a little unreasonable
   on your behalf,

   I handled the other half.

Four seats.

Wreck Deck.

Tennessee at Georgia Tech.

     You,
     plus the three Yellow Jacket BFFs,
     exactly where the day should have

     a fighting chance to be loud enough.

That’s the gift.

The annoying part,
    because apparently
    even joy has to pass through
             _someone’s_ process…

    is that I can’t transfer them yet.

Not because they’re imaginary.

Not because this is some elaborate
    half-birthday confidence scam,

    though honestly,
    if I were going to start scamming you,
    I hope I would choose something less traceable

    than college football inventory.

It is just the venue
   doing venue things,

   which means the official proof
   is still trapped
   behind the part of the machine

   that hasn’t decided to become useful yet.

So this is the proof for now.

This rambling,
     this card,
     this ridiculous little paperless bow.

Me saying:

     Happy Halfday,
     you got the seats.

Not eventually, already.

The transfer _will_ catch up…

    when the venue stops being the venue.

But the gift is real now.

Real as the way
     I wanted you to have something
     that made your face do the thing
     I’ve been missing across all these miles.

Real as four seats waiting for four voices.

Real as a game you wanted
     becoming a day

     I get to help hand back to you.

So yes, this is a card.

It has no glitter,
   which is a mercy.

No folded cardstock,
   or suspiciously emotional
          grocery-store font.

Just me, standing here,
     in the middle of your year…

     loving the excuse,
     loving the part
     where I get to say:

     there’s more coming.

     More proof,
      more year,
       more you.

And somewhere out there,
    four Wreck Deck seats
       learning your name.

Happy Halfday, Mari.

The first half
    already did a pretty good job
              of getting you here.

I can’t wait to see
  what kind of beautiful trouble
   the next half decides to make.