Near the beaches of Santa Cruz, a small house stood made of stucco and Spanish tile. Bright and warm, it's crowded porch hosted dozens of clay pots, holding just as many plants. Next to them, three small chairs, painted white, with a matching table that held the promise of glasses of wine, cheese platters, and the inevitable camera.

Inside the house, the mustard walls were covered with photographs, big and small, all black and white, revealing a loving history of its residents. Most featured a confident brunette, tattooed, kerchief in her hair, smiling and sassy. The Storyteller, even when captured in a frame. The camera loved her. Or perhaps it was the Photographer, whose love for his model showed through his art. Her eyes shone brighter when he stepped on her side of the camera. Images of sporting events, art shows, car shows, and weddings decorated the wall leading into the home.

In the hall next to the living room, was a large wedding photo featuring the Storyteller and the Photographer. Continuing down the hall, the couple ages, frames meticulously arranged to tell their story. Around the first bedroom, a sonogram is added, followed by a bump, and a tiny person. Following this, a barrage of first steps, birthday candles, and days at the beach. The rest of the walls are empty, blank canvases waiting to be filled.

From inside the second bedroom, a warm light pours into the hallway. Just in the door, the Photographer is sitting quietly watching the scene through a lens, a lopsided smile making his mustache crooked. In the bed is a child, laughing and calling out instructions. All their attention focused on the Storyteller.

The tattooed, curvy woman from the photos, in tight jeans and bare feet, jumps around the room, leaping over chairs and hiding behind tables, as she describes an epic battle between the dragon and St. George the Dragonslayer. The dragon is the hero, of course. The Storyteller picks up the Child's plot points with ease, weaving them into a story as layered and intricate as her tattoos. Her eyes full of fire, a laugh near her lips, the Storyteller's love for her audience shines through the performance

But then, the storm moved in. As always, it passed, but nothing is the same.

Now:

The Storyteller is quiet. Her eyes smolder, her laugh hidden away. She sits alone in a tiny chair in the second bedroom, holding a stuffed dragon. The dragon is always the hero, of course. She sighs, slips on her shoes, pulls up her hoodie, and leaves the darkened room.

The hall is bare, shadows of frames on the walls, waiting for a new coat of paint to cover their existence. Birthdays, sonograms, weddings, art shows, all packed meticulously, not erased but hidden away.

Exiting the house, she passes the crowded porch. The rusting table is empty, no promises of wine or cheese. The porch still hosts dozens of dry pots with as many dying plants. The stucco and Spanish tile seem to have lost their warmth and sit bleached from the California sun. The house is stark and cold. Alone now, it's time for the Storyteller to leave. She walks away without looking back. It's time for a fresh start, far from the beaches of Santa Cruz.