A Rose by Any Other Name

Collage of Found Objects by Salley McInerney


As they entered the front door, the phone was ringing. The answering machine light was already blinking, lending a sense of urgency to the call. And it was urgent. A hospital nurse told Katy’s oldest brother, Mike, that their brother had been in a motorcycle accident. Would the family be able to come to the emergency room?


In the truck, Mike and Nita bickered, and it was grating on Katy’s nerves.

“He doesn’t have insurance. We will have to step up.” This from Mike. He always drove by default. Nita had never learned to drive; she didn’t have the temperament for it.

“I brought my checkbook,” Nita answered.

Nita always had her kids call her by her first name. The way she saw it, if any of them needed her, she would hear her own name being called. Hearing a child yell “Mom” on a playground or a beach just got lost in parental white noise.

“You know how much he hates Fountain Valley! No way we’re letting them do anything major for him there…”

“I remember,” Nita mumbled. “He made us promise after that bruised tailbone when we moved.”

“Will you two stop!? For all we know, he might be dead!” Katy exploded, shocking herself.

It was out there, and there was no way to take it back now. Katy mentally cursed all the recalcitrant street lights that kept slowing their momentum. At age twenty-four, wisdom and patience were not her bragging points.

Mike eventually parked the battered work truck in the emergency lot. Katy, sitting in the middle seat, could only wait. Nobody seemed to be in a rush.

Katy studied her mother’s profile in the parking lot lights. Nita always made her think of one of her favorite actresses, Jane Darwell. Here, in the deep shadows of the old work truck, Nita fully encapsulated all the heart and soul of one of the greatest, strongest matriarchs of all time: Ma Joad from The Grapes of Wrath. Nita had seen some shit. She had survived the Great Depression, spent World War II in a factory doping airplane wings.

Under a Wanton Magnolia: poems
by Maggie Stetler
In these lush and candid poems, MAGGIE STETLER plumbs dreams, memories and buried feelings to reconstruct her chaotic childhood, her broken family and fractured self. A fugitive trail of cobalt blue…a room full of hummingbirds… startling images of beauty uplift and sustain her as she journeys toward love and wholeness. In the end, she is a white-haired, sensuous woman under a magnolia tree in full, unabashed bloom; awake to who she is and what remains, surrendering to the firmament, embracing joy. “I was moved by so many of these poems, especially the powerful and vivid “Mother” poem and “Eight Ways of Looking at a Yellow Chrysanthemum,” a rich and inventive work. I am attached to Maggie’s dreamscapes, erotic candor, the clarity and confidence of her voice, the immediacy of her connection to memory and the natural world. Her first-book collection is long overdue and begs to be read.” — Colette Inez, Family Life and The Secret of M. Dulong: A Memoir “This is a gorgeous, sensual collection of poems that are not afraid to delve into the deepest places while always reaching for the light. Longing and desire, suffering and self-doubt are balanced by an exuberant joy in the beauty and heft of the world. These poems feel solid on the tongue and in your hand. You will be “stunned” by these stars.” — Heather Davis, award-winning poet, author of The Lost Tribe of Us Available from Amazon or your local independent bookseller.

When Katy was a baby, Nita’s eccentricities made her the neighborhood scapegoat. Her kids were taken away; she was incarcerated for psychiatric review. Could she be entrusted with their return from foster care? When the doctor’s reports were read in court, the judge decreed: “This woman poses no threat to herself or others. Give her back her kids. Case closed.”

Katy led the way to the reception area and announced their arrival. A nurse escorted them to an empty room across the hall. The nurse made sure they were each seated and said she would bring the doctor in a moment. Katy had a real bad feeling about this. It was confirmed when the nurse returned, opening a large box of real Kleenex.

You don’t see the real thing in hospitals, Katy thought. They usually give patients the miniature cheapie tissues that look like they came from a kid’s playhouse.

The doctor sat on his wheeled stool. First, he addressed Mike.

“Are you his brother?”


Then he moved over in front of Katy.

“Are you his sister?”

“Yes, and I’m an organ donor, if it helps.”

The doctor then sidled over to face Nita. It was as if he were culling her from the herd.

“And are you his mother?”

“Yes,” a bare whisper.

Katy was stricken at Nita’s stoicism. Everybody must have known what was coming next. The doctor took a long glance at his clipboard.

“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but your son, Neil, has passed away tonight.”

Nita’s eyes were closed, but Katy and Mike shared shocked stares, their mouths agape.

“His name,” Nita corrected, “is Noel.”



Author's Comment

We all have messages that are important to share. Light. Heavy. Hopeful. Tear jerkers. Please share your own. Fictionalize them if your privacy is sacrosanct.

Don’t listen to your inner critic; someone needs to see or hear your message. Mine are at


Katy Wright's parents were freethinkers. Her formative years were spent alongside the barrio and the railroad tracks in Santa Ana, CA.

Three free-range siblings kicking around in Orange County among blossoming orange groves. Idyllic, more to follow at

As a child growing up in the 1960s, Salley McInerney was drawn to the “junk” people put out in the street for the “trash man” to collect. As an adult, she turned her fascination with found objects into art, creating images using screws, washers, bottle caps, flattened tin cans. She graduated from the University of the South, studied art at the Fenland School of Crafts, and lives in Camden SC. When not in her studio, she is riding horses.

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