Swim

They had laughed at (mocked) the empty bottles with their names on them - letters carefully pressed into a smear of wax beneath the seal itself. "Totally off of her nut at the end," they said, putting the glass in a box for recycling. But Jean, who volunteered to pack and clean her grandmother's "super crazy room" at the rear of the house, retrieved them and moved most of the things into the back of her car - grateful that no one cared what she did (pretty much ever). "Magick is infinite," she had read on a random diary page in her grandmother's slanted, irregular handwriting, "and its depth is unknown. Most will stay on the shore unaware, but some ... some ... " "Teach me to swim," Jean whispered to the breeze and, for a moment, the air hung heavy with salt sea spray and a gull cried overhead.