erika connor

artist writer traveller

The Old Lab

She was afraid of the camera. She was subtle, like a dream, hovering on the periphery.

She grew up in the cabin, long before I came. Maybe that is why she lies in her place on the porch, overlooking the driveway and the road. I never know when she’ll appear. She stays for an hour or so, then she is gone.

Her hair is soft as silk. She is small and squat. Her legs seem too short for her body. The only white on her is the wisp at the end of her tail and her four white socks. In the beginning, she kept away. She stayed on the hill above me, sounding her alarm, her ghost-like wailing. Now, she comes in greeting, with a dance, prancing on her furry white feet, head low, moving side to side. She brushes her head against my legs. She looks carefully into my eyes. 

A few nights ago she disappeared. I heard voices calling in the night. It was the fireworks for St Jean Baptiste that set her off. The crackling explosions echoed on the lake. She is afraid of thunder and lightening. I thought about sensitivity and how it  can undermine you. It enriches and overwhelms.

How sad it would be if she was lost, now when I am preparing to leave. I would feel like I had left something undone.

The next day, she appeared in her place.


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