A Rose by any other name

What he didn’t know about flowers wasn’t worth knowing. He had been fascinated by them since being a young child and knew their Latin, botanical, familiar and folk names. He had loved them as other boys had loved trains, football and, later on, girls.

But as the years had gone by he had grown to despise the knowledge. It wasn’t that he hated the flowers. No, it was the insistence of his mother that he name everything they saw.

Now, at the age of forty and sitting in the little café by the beach, he could hear his Mother’s tinny voice as her frail finger pointing at the single stem in the cheap cut glass vase on the centre of the stained cloth table.

“What’s that Chris?” she said for the third time, “What’s that Chris?”

He tried to tune her out but suddenly he could hear his sister’s frustrated voice rising above his mothers.

“Chris answer Mum.”

“That’s right dear,” said her mother with surprise in her voice. “I didn’t know you knew so much as well.” She turned and pointed out of the window. “So what’s that Rose?”

Chris let a smile drift across his face.