You made it.

After the Braves game,
      after Atlanta handled business
            six to three,
            after the day had already
            given me enough reasons to call it good,

            you made it to Irby’s 8th anniversary party.

You on the patio.

Beautiful Saturday night.

The kind that gets loose
        around the edges
  until nobody remembers
            exactly when

  the clock stopped mattering.

We hung out
   until I can’t remember when.

Which is probably
      the right official timestamp
             for a night like that.

Braves win.

Irby’s turns eight.

Orca holds court
     on her new little couch,
     tiny monarch in a harness,
      surrounded by patio legs,
                   chair noise,
                    and people

        pretending not to melt.

I sent the picture
  to the Canada GP group chat,
  because some things

  are obviously international news.

There she was:
         Orca,
         couch-secured,
         patio-approved,

         cute enough to interrupt multiple time zones.

And there you were too.

That smile.

That voice.

That you.

Not the cuddle kind of visit.

Not the close-the-door
         and disappear
         kind of visit.

But still—

Saturday Mari.

And today,
    if the plan behaves,
            Sunday Mari.

The smile doubleheader.

First pitch:
      Irby’s patio,
      Braves already in the win column,
      Saturday night
               doing Saturday night things.

Second game:
       Yeppa in Buckhead
       for the Monaco GP.

Apex might show.

Probably not.

Still,
      Monaco on,
      Buckhead awake,
      coffee or whatever

      passes for race fuel at brunch.

Then the handoff.

You’ll take Orca
       while I pick up King Ron
       for Braves versus Pirates.

Go Braves.

Another game.

Another little relay
        where the day keeps moving
        through people I’m lucky to have in it.

And yes, I know.

These ain’t
      the visits
          I want most.

No slow collapse
   into the couch.

No long hug
   that makes the week surrender.

No full quiet
   where the rest of the world
               can go be wrong
                somewhere else.

But sometimes
    the smile is enough
    to keep my own
    stuck there
    all day.

Sometimes
         the voice is enough
         to make the whole day
           stand up straighter.

Sometimes
         just seeing you
         across the moving parts
         of a busy weekend

         still counts in big bright numbers.

Saturday Mari.

Sunday Mari.

Not the cuddle kind.

Still the kind
      that keeps me grinning
                like my team
         just won both games.