Maude Meehan

One of my mothers died over the weekend.

My friend for the last twenty-four years, poet Maude Meehan, passed away peacefully in her sleep on August 18th, 2007. She was eighty-six years old, the author of four books of poetry (she began writing poetry at the age of fifty-six), a mentor to countless writers in Santa Cruz and beyond, and for me, a steady and unfailing support of my writing since I was in my twenties.

To have her suddenly torn from the fabric of my life feels like an unhealable wound. Mr. Strega had to break the news to me yesterday and told me that the first thing I said was, "I will never get over this." I have not yet lost one of my parents, and yet I feel have now. Since I am also witnessing the prolonged illness of a friend with brain cancer who is slowly going blind, having seizures, etc., I am extremely glad that Maude went gently into that good night.

I had the immense honor of being in a writing group with Maude, and I am extremely glad that she was able to read almost all of The Strega's Story; she loved the book and I am sorry she will not see its publication (at least from this plane of existence). I have decided to dedicate it to both Maude and my friend Harvey who died in 2005.

I am so glad that, every time I saw her, I told Maudie I loved her. I had a wish that we had a few more years left, but that was not meant to be. My mind refuses to believe I will never see her again--and, since I do believe that life goes on after this physical one is over, it is my consolation that I will be with her again one day, though right now, the world seems much more like a wilderness without her.

Faithful readers, I am in shock still. The world will be a different place without Maudie. So, for now, I leave you with three of her poems.

Gift for My Mother's 90th Birthday
Burcham Hospital

We watched the rain sluice down
against the window of your sterile room
and listened as you told of childhood's
summer showers at the farm; how you ran out
a colt unpenned, into their sudden soaking bliss.

Now you, aged changeling mother,
emptied and clean as a cracked china cup
on the wrong shelf, whisper, "What I would give
to feel that rain pelt hard against my face."

But you had nothing left, so we
conspirators of love locked the white door
and your granddaughter wheeled you to the bath
where we unclothed your little sack of bones
and lifted you beneath the shower.

She held you up, your legs pale stalks adangle
and clasped your wasted body, bracing her taut
young flesh to your slack folds.
And you clung laughing, joyous as a child
to feel the clear fresh rivulets
course down your upturned face.

Album Circa 1912

Mama
how beautiful you were.
Here you stand
beneath a sign
marked Danger,
laughing.
And this, my favorite,
where your rebellious hair
falls thick and soft
as summer heat
and promises.
Later the pensive
photographs emerge,
with pinned-back
hair and smile.
After illusions died
your eyes seemed dark wells
of endurance.
The pictures blur
as stiff black edges
of the album crumble,
dressing my hands in mourning
as the pages turn.


Corcoran Lagoon
Santa Cruz, California

The breeze is pungent
with the smell of eucalyptus.
A crane perched on a floating log
preens with Edwardian elegance
oblivious to my presence.
The banks of the lagoon
are brushed with purple, pink,
pale yellow; reminders
that the seasons here
pass gently, announced by
certain flowering
or a subtle change of light.
Unlike that eastern shore
where more than fifty of my years
were weather sliced
precisely into quarters. Here
the illusion of unchanging pace
assures me there is endless time
stretched out and out. Grateful,
I allow myself this small deception.