At age 21, novelist Shilo Kino met a 91-year-old woman named Hilda and struck up a friendship that would become one of the most meaningful relationships of her life.
I first met Hilda Wright when I was in my early 20s. I was working in a stationery store, and she was wrapped up in a purple cardigan, gripping the arm of a teenage boy. Her creased, pale skin and dusky hair spoke of a long life and yet she laughed loudly, her eyes sparkling, like a child in a candy store.
“Hello! What’s your name?” she asked, peering up at me before giving me a hug.
This little old lady loved talking. "To cut a long story short" was a lie she constantly told because no story was ever short. I began to look forward to her visits to the store and hearing her views on the world. Every word that came out of her mouth, every story, had a purpose. And I found the more she visited, the more I realised she wasn't just a customer anymore. I began to truly treasure her as a friend.
Hilda Wright was 91 years old when I first met her. She lived in a small unit in West Auckland. After many visits to my work, we began to go for coffees together, and then she invited me to her home. I began to visit her weekly. She had so many stories, her life marked by many tragedies. As a teenager in England, she vividly remembered Hitler's rise to power in Germany. "Many people, including some of my friends, worshiped Hitler like he was God." She described how, during the war, each new day was a gamble with life as her neighborhood was bombed. Every evening at 6pm, she would huddle with her family, her eyes squeezed tight in prayer as the world crumbled around her.
Hilda spoke of her beloved Chris, her husband of 63 years, whom she married in the dark corner of a shattered church. I still remember how her cheeks would blush pink when she spoke of him and how handsome he was. She never thought Chris would choose her because, "I was a plain Jane, and I thought he would go for my friend." And then, "You will know when they are the right one because light will enter your life and the heavens will open." Chris had passed away sixteen years earlier, but she always felt him near, especially when listening to talk-back radio.
I don’t think I grasped the depth of the tragedies Hilda had experienced. Her mother died when she was 17 years old and she had also lost a son. She told me, with a tear in her eye, "You should never have to bury your own child.” I’ll never forget when she said that.
I was young and self-absorbed and yet my own problems seemed to pale in comparison to what Hilda had endured. I couldn't understand how someone could experience so much tragedy and yet live a life filled with such joy. When I asked her how she was always so happy despite her trials, she told me she woke up every morning grateful, thanking the Lord for all the beautiful things in life she had been given.
Hilda loved endlessly, fiercely, and she loved every single person in her presence. I’m serious when I say that. No one was a stranger to her. I often accompanied her to hospital appointments, and we were always late because as we walked through the corridors, she needed to stop and speak to every single person, to give them a Grandma Hilda hug. I remember her telling me about the one person in her entire life who refused a hug — a postie delivering a parcel. "I asked him if I could give him a hug, and he said no," she said sadly. "I’ve never forgotten it."
When I told Hilda that my grandparents had passed away before I was born, she looked at me and said, "I’ll be your grandma."
And she meant it. Grandma Hilda was there for me during significant moments in my life — my university graduation, my first short story published, leaving on a mission, and through heartbreak — and I was there for her during her big birthday celebrations, moving from her family home to a rest home, and hospital appointments, and then her final months before she passed.
Grandma Hilda lived with such joy and love, and she taught me how to emulate this, despite the trials I face in my own life. She showed me how to truly love, to see every single person for who they are, for their divine worth. And though I am imperfect, I always look to her as a role model.
I recommend more of us spend time with our grandparents, or elderly in our communities. The stories, the pearls of wisdom, the golden nuggets, the expanding of our worldview just from sitting at the knee of our kuia and kaumātua is an incredible gift.
Time didn’t seem to exist in Grandma Hilda's presence; her home felt like a refuge away from the world. I often left her house feeling like I was floating, like my cup had just been filled and I wanted to give to others what Hilda had given me. It was the impact she had.
Grandma Hilda passed away peacefully in 2019. I think about her every day and I often ask myself, "What would Hilda do?" when navigating life and people and humanity and tough decisions. I dedicated my book All That We Know to her, and one of the characters in the novel is based on her.
Grandma Hilda taught me so much. I now understand why we found each other in this lifetime. Her legacy won’t be found in history books, instead her imprint is in the impact she had on all the people she met and loved.
Despite all she went through in her 98 years, no obstacle, haunting experience, or tragedy stopped her from living with endless joy. Grandma Hilda was grateful for her life. I still find comfort in her guidance, as tender and beautiful to me today as when she was alive.
For that, I am grateful.
Shilo Kino (Ngāpuhi, Ngāti Maniapotoi) is an award-winning author based in Tāmaki Makaurau. Her latest novel All That We Know (Moa Press) is out now.
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