The People's Panda

Evelyn Douglas was born to be a sharpshooter. Thats what her father told her as long as she could remember. She preferred revolvers. The heavy weight a solid force in each hand, the sun glinting off each engraved barrel. She could fire a rifle just fine, there wasn't any question there. It was just too slow for Evelyn. She liked her life to be fast, just like she was.

Evelyn only slowed down once a year, for Dia De Los Muertos, the Day of the Dead. Her mother was a Mexican beauty, all raven hair and dark eyes. Evelyn looked just like her mother, no matter how pale and European her father might be. She'd sit at the cracked wooden table in her kitchen, and paint intricate designs on each of her tiny sugar skulls. She'd spend the entire day laying down complex scallops and streaks around their eyes and mouths, flowers on their cheeks, making the plain white sugar bright and vivid. She barely remembered her mother, but what flashes she had went into the skulls. The vibrant colors of her skirts, the delicate curve of her shoulder, the humor in her eyes. When she was younger she had asked her father what foods her mother loved, and she painstakingly recreated them. Spicy tamales, delectible arroz con pollo, and bottles of fresh milk adorned the simple altar she would erect each year. She would cover the altar in flowers and her skulls, all fanning out from the one faded photo she had of her.

She'd goad her father into coming by the house to sit with her at the altar, feet crushing stray marigolds as they tumbled to the floor. He'd humor her for love, tell her sweet and silly stories of her mother. How she entranced him the moment he saw her, her dark hair flowing over her shoulders like a waterfall as she laughed. He'd tell her about her mother celebrating Day of the Dead, how she'd never been a good cook, and her offerings were always burnt as black as her eyes. He'd tell Evelyn how she'd been named by her mother, how she'd jokingly told him that she'd give her a good English name since she was getting good Mexican beauty. It was only fair. He told her how much he loved her voice, how each time she went to sleep, she'd murmur 'I love you very much', her V's forever sounding like B's to him, and he'd fall in love with her all over again. He'd tell her how she used to sing Evelyn to sleep in Spanish, her soft voice somehow filling the room with beauty. He'd tell her everything with a quiet sort of reverence, his fingers worrying the petals of a Marigold. And in this way, Evelyn knew her mother.

After a time, they'd leave the tiny yellow house she lived in, and make their way to the cemetary. Evelyn would have split the food offerings, half of them arranged on the altar, the other half in a basket along with a Catrina figure, marigolds, and some more sugar skulls. She would have slipped in a tiny bit of tequila, even though her mother never drank. Spirits seemed an important part of the day for most, and she didn't want to mess anything up. They'd reach her grave and Evelyn would spread out a cloth her aunt had made her, sewn from one of her mothers colorful skirts. Her aunt had made another cloth for her altar at home, and the rest had become a quilt so Evelyn could always have her mother's embrace. She'd spread flowers on the cloth, along with tall candles painted with a portrait of the Virgin Mother. The skulls would be carefully arranged, along with the extra food and drinks. Again, she'd sit and think of her mother, talk with her father. Most times her aunts would come with trinkets and treats, but other times they stayed at the cemetary in their little town, where Evelyn's grandparents were.

Eventually, as is always the case with the holiday, the sun would go down, and the candles would illuminate the night. Flickering lights would throw garish shadows on the faces of attentive loved ones,transforming everyone into grinning calaveras. Someone in the cemetary would begin to play music, and Evelyn's father would tell her about how her mother used to dance. Evelyn would rise from the ground and sway her hips, her eyes closed and her arms held high above her head. She would kick off her shoes and spin, her skirts billowing out from her legs, nearly catching fire as they sailed over the candle flames. She would sing to herself in Spanish, in the language of her mother, and sway to the music, her hair a waterfall of black. Her father would watch her, eyes heavy with sadness and love, and for a moment he would see his wife again, and in this way, Evelyn's mother lived.

When the candles had guttered out, and the music had ended, Evelyn would kiss her hand and press her fingertips to the cool stone grave marker. She and her father would trek back to her tiny yellow house on the hill, where he'd kiss her cheek and head home. She'd go inside and lay out thick blankets and soft pillows beside the altar, so her mother could come and rest with her. She'd lay down in her own makeshift pallet, and look up at the faded photo, whispering prayers of hope and love to her beloved madre. She'd fall asleep with her arm outstretched, fingers touching the hem of the altar cloth, waiting for her mother to come.

In truth, Evelyn was born to be a dancer, like her mother before her. She was agile and rhythmic and lithe. But things don't always go the way we plan, and mothers aren't always there to teach their daughters to be little ballerinas. Sometimes we're left with fathers and revolvers. Evelyn was born to be a sharpshooter, that's what her father said.