The Rose Parade   It happened all at once — my mother slipping out of time, out of space, into a sea of pure soul. Admittedly, I was tripping, and the Rose Parade was on TV, but I saw what I saw: she was a baby crying for her mama, a shy schoolgirl dreaming of things to come, a nice neighbor just minding her own business, a rule maker and a rule breaker when it came to motherhood, a brave widow, a ghost — all of this in a flash. I couldn’t blame her anymore, not for anything. Most of the parade was over when a hearse delivered her back to this living moment in this convoluted universe with its never-ending parade of flowing convertibles, each one with a queen in her sash and tiara, and marching bands forever marching behind floats that mean everything, processing past the grandstand.     © Michael Fleming Williamsville, Vermont June 2025