Danny Boy

An essay about those nonrefundable things, moments, and people.

When I first saw the little pink Hippo, it was stacked on top of about four more—dainty, simple, and fat-faced. It had teeny floral ears and beady-sewn eyes.

It was the beaded feet that sold it, though—that understated weight of fortitude at its helm.

I picked it up and turned to Zoe. (I had tears in my eyes. Not from emotion—God no. I’d just thrown up from all the feelings I don’t have. Like a sound adult.)

“You need it, don’t you?” Zoe’s face was a mix of compassion, humor, and a knowing look. “You sad, pukey baby.”

I hugged the hippo and nodded. Man, did it feel good to be a baby. An ugly baby whose pain had levity. A best friend knows that absurdity begets absurdity. Real tears require real laughter. Or at least mine do.

“Eighty dollars,” the cashier said. I rolled my eyes. Only in San Francisco would a pink plush hippo cost as much as thirty minutes of therapy.

Zoe pulled out her wallet. I sniffed my hippo. I shouldn’t let her pay eighty fucking dollars for a boutique stuffed animal. I’m thirty years old. But I do—recalling that time she watched me trade an energy Pokémon card for a shiny one, scolding me only after the whole ordeal unfolded. That card was probably worth about eighty bucks.

“Do you want your receipt?”

We both shook our heads. The pink hippo was nonrefundable.

When we got outside, she said, “What are you gonna name him?”

I told her, “Hippo,” and she said, “Apt.”

Some years later, Zoe would be red-faced and glass-eyed as she watched her loved one die. The loss was nonrefundable and fabric-altering. I cried for her, but I couldn’t be there.

In my place, I sent the pink hippo with beaded feet.

She called after the death. She recounted how an eccentric woman from her family’s church came during the last call to sing Danny Boy over the final breaths.

“No one was laughing, Calla. I had to stifle it.”

Imagine?

Back in San Francisco, the group was waiting for us. We merged back into the fold and kept step.

“Whatcha got there?” some asked, taking the plush toy from me to compliment and cloy, poking fun at the grown woman carrying a toy through San Francisco.

Through talking and shifting heads, Zoe and I locked eyes for a moment. No one knew I’d been sick with my invisible emotions, or where I’d gotten my weighted feet.