Living in Southern California had its perks. The beach was one, sunshine was another. On New Year's Day there was a parade to beat the band, or should I say in which the band beat their drums, with entries that were entirely made of roses. Well, that is a tad of an exaggeration, in that there were motors and wheels supporting the floats, and the regulations allowed a wide range of natural materials including walnut shells and grass. 

 

We often packed up our brood and headed to the Rose Parade, along with enough snacks to sustain small children for four hours. There were people more determined than us, who slept all night on the sidewalks, or purchased pricey seats along Colorado Boulevard. But the view was just as riveting for those of us in the cheap seats. 

 

One year we parked across from a television crew, which meant an extra surge of enthusiasm from the musicians and baton twirlers. Another time we grabbed cement footage at the end of the Parade, and although the energy was lagging for oboists who had been blowing since before daybreak, the elaborate displays of creative floats were epic to the finale. 

 

I remember seeing someone selling red helium balloons, and thought of splurging on one for our three-year-old, Hosanna. But the vendor was out of reach before I could pull out my wallet. This was back when people used cash. When the last float floated past, I announced that we were headed home. As I collected our trash, and cups, and blanket, I lost sight of Hosanna, even for just a minute. When I looked up to lead us to the car, she was gone. A very small girl in a sea of milling people. 

 

I screamed. John was more intelligent and ran through the crowd. I abandoned my baby to the arms of a stranger, and wrung my hands helplessly. I called her name over and over. 

 

If you are not privy to the phenomenon that occurs in the wake of the parade, I will tell you that this is where the evangelists grab the microphone. Or megaphone, and held up posters announcing that the end is near. 

 

"Repent!" they warned to no one in particular. 

 

It was in their midst that I found myself chanting my daughter's name. 

 

"Hosanna! Hosanna!"

 

People rolled their eyes. 

 

Gradually, a policeman identified me as a hysterical mother and promised that they would find her. 

 

"Lady, this happens every year. We have a cop on every corner."

 

My heart returned to my chest and I believed for the first time that she was not permanently lost. He was right, and in a minute or two a brawny policeman held my precious daughter in his arms, and brought her to me. 

 

I returned from the abyss and held her tightly. 

 

And wished that I had bought that balloon.