Another Big Island Writers meeting at my home on the island pried this petite, funny story about my grandma out of my wordy brain. The 10-minute prompt was:

That’s How Grandma Died

The problem is she didn’t die. She lived on and on and on. Heart pumping blood to a body that was immobile in a care facility bed. Over 105. She had vacated her brain.

I visited her several years before when she was still a thinker and communicator.

She told me, “I should have died years ago. But I rode that god damn exercise bicycle 17 miles a day since 1950. My heart just won’t quit.”

I held her hand. The skin paper thin. The flesh cold.

“I wanted to keep my svelte figure. Vanity and discipline have been my curse.”

“Grandma Lucy, you were always beautiful and youthful.”

She shook her small head. “Grandpa and I made love until the day he died. He died on me. He left me. He was so good in bed.”

Tears streamed down Grandma Lucy’s face. “I just want to be with him.”

“Did he ride the exercise bike?” I asked.

“God no. He loved his TV and rich gourmet foods. That’s what killed him. Cream, steak, and whiskey.”

She shook her head. “I should have tossed that bike aside, told Jack LaLanne to fuck off, and eaten more eclairs.