Until I started writing letters
back and forth to my Great Grandma Kay, she had only been a family member who I
saw once in a while at family gatherings and knew very little about. Every
conversation we had previously to what we talked about on paper was just small
talk to pass the time. I had figured, as many kids do, that there probably
wasn’t much to talk about because we had nothing in common. Little did I know, I was very wrong.
Megan, 17yrs (Left) with her Mother
Our letters started off like small talk, covering all the basics. We talked about the weather, what was going on in each other’s lives, and what we were looking forward to in the upcoming week. It didn’t take long before I started learning more about her. It hadn’t occurred to me that she had lived a whole lifetime before she was the fragile and small lady that I knew her as. She told me about her life in New Zealand growing up, and about how she met my Great Grandpa and fell in love. About every other week I could expect a response from her. Each letter I received let me learn even more about her. When the envelope arrived in my mailbox, it was always a highlight of my day.
The beginning of each one of her
letters was the same loopy cursive I had become a pro at reading. But towards
the end of some of her letters, her handwriting would get harder to read. She
would always apologize and tell me her arthritis limited the legibility. I
always felt a little pang of guilt when I would think about her hand hurting
while finishing some of the letters, but that never stopped her from ending
them. Some of the letters I got were up to 6 pages long, and I appreciated
every one. I was grateful that she liked writing to me so much. She wouldn’t
shorten her letters even when she could have. I admired that.
As my great grandma got sick, the letters we sent became few and far between. She would tell my Nana, her daughter-in-law, that she felt bad for taking a long time to respond to me because she often forgot or didn’t have the energy to. I didn’t mind, I just wanted her to get better. One day after not hearing from her in a while, I overheard a conversation my dad was having on the phone and learned that she was really in bad shape. That week, my dad went to Nana’s to see her for the last time. Before he left, I wrote one last letter to her, which was read aloud for her when it got delivered. It was one of the hardest things I have had to do, but I wanted to do it. I remember thinking, what would a 16 year old girl say to woman who was about to die? What would I want said to me? I started it off by thanking her for taking the time to write me. I hoped she enjoyed our letters as much as I did. With watery eyes, I asked her if she was excited to see Great Grandpa again in Heaven. By the end of my letter, I was trying my best to keep my tears off the paper. I was sad that her life was coming to an end but I found comfort in knowing that she wouldn’t be in pain for much longer.
The day that Kay Stoughton died the
world lost a precious person. She was buried with my last letter in her hands.
It was an honor and a privilege to have gotten to know her. I still have all of
the letters she sent me, and I can feel her presence when I read them over.
Although we only were pen pals for a short time, her stories and advice in her
letters will stay with me forever.
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