Happy Halfday

Sat, 18 Jul 2026 23:42:32 -0500
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.
Georgia Tech on Bougyman's Ramblings

Happy Halfday
