Dear Wigleaf,

I'm sitting on a bench with my notepad, in an empty locker room of a swim pool. I'm here to say: Wigleaf, thank you for giving my short story a home.

I wonder, what does it mean to find a home? For a person or a story? I decided to write to you from an empty locker room because I feel at home here. I swim after work. Every time I think: I'm so tired, I had a full day, the last thing I need is to survive in cold water. Is it because my father passed away three years ago, and he was a swim coach, that I'm here? I look for him in this place and I find him. I wonder if part of feeling 'at home' is a license to act and feel a little crazy, a little loony. I cuss when I plunge into the water, and smile to strangers in the lane next to mine when we are toughing it out in the storm, angry spikes of rain hitting our backs and faces, and I know it's OK to look pathetic when I try to revive my butterfly. My kind of crazy fits here, so I'm at home. And now my story found a home with you — it can run all over the place without a leash. Thank you for this. I'm about to fetch my backpack from the locker, and head home to my family.

Love,
Svetlana