Dear Wigleaf,

I have a friend with postcards all over her fridge from everyone who's left her. I've promised her one, too. Though she's never been, she shares a surname with a beach in Wales. Some faded heritage. This beach is an international champion of beaches—just gorgeous. On one end lies a shipwreck. On the other, an island of puffins. Ewes and their lambs graze the cliffs in between. I stood at that edge and watched a lone porpoise play in a sea of melted sherbet. Then I went to the café and bought my friend a postcard with her name right at the top. But I'm not sending it to her. I'm sending it here, to you.

XO,