Pride of the River Horse
In the palm of my hand, I cradle Hippopotamus amphibious, the river horse. She gazes up at me with eyes like a thunderstorm sky. Years ago, she hitched a ride out of the San Diego Zoo gift shop in my pocket. Souvenirs were a tradition in the Linford home, and I consequently acquired a lot of them. Brightly painted cats guarded my bookshelf. Posters crowded my walls. Ornate boxes overflowed with keepsake books. When I got married, most of these items remained in my childhood home to accumulate dust. But the little hippo still proudly defends my dresser wherever life takes us.
In the palm of my hand, I cradle Hippopotamus amphibious, the river horse. She gazes up at me with eyes like a thunderstorm sky. Years ago, she hitched a ride out of the San Diego Zoo gift shop in my pocket. Souvenirs were a tradition in the Linford home, and I consequently acquired a lot of them. Brightly painted cats guarded my bookshelf. Posters crowded my walls. Ornate boxes overflowed with keepsake books. When I got married, most of these items remained in my childhood home to accumulate dust. But the little hippo still proudly defends my dresser wherever life takes us.
It was her pride that attracted my attention that day at the zoo. Her grin lured me away from the stuffed lions and quirky key chains. My mom chuckled over my selection, but I bought her anyway. At a time when my own body made me uncomfortable, her attitude inspired me. As she relaxes on my dresser, her skin drapes over her feet and bulges out from between them. And yet, she holds her head high. Recognizing such confidence as a possibility, I felt my sense of guilt diminishing when I indulged in an occasional cookie.
My hippopotamus sports a hide of stone which cools my skin but brightens my mood. Enjoying a strong bond with gravity, she will not budge for just anyone. She is firm, but her smile drives away any shred of annoyance. If only all role models stood—or sat—so steadfast! I imagine her sinking down for a rest after a long day of rolling in the mud and munching grass on the banks of the Zambezi. Perhaps her life wants glamour, but I envy her contentment. I budge a little less, now, as I enjoy my own unglamorous existence.
Her greengrey curves remind me of riverbed hikes between dazzling cliffs. Smooth rocks, striped and spotted, pave my way. I pick one up and carry it along with me for a time before replacing it with another. I cannot settle for just one, because no rock exactly matches another. Even the plain rocks have something to teach. This rock used to be sand. That one hardened from lava. The one over there had jagged edges once. Thousands of years in the making, they offer no apologies. Neither does my hippopotamus. And after 21 years, neither do I.
My 21 years do not come close to my hippo’s decades of experience, and it shows. I scowl in the mornings. I run into stop signs on my bike. I burn grilled cheese sandwiches. I’m an ordinary rock, still being carved. With each scraped knee and every broken heart, I leave behind pieces I don’t need. One day my sharp edges will curve. I’ll be a hippopotamus. Or maybe a porcupine. Or even a dandelion. Whatever I become, I’ll be it with pride.
A skillful hand once carved an ordinary rock. The sculptor knew this rock had something to say. He gave it a voice. I gave it an ear.
I let out an "eww" and resumed my paperwork. That evening, however, my mind drifted back to the "gooey-duck," and I thought perhaps I would give it a chance.