A woman with pinned-back, graying hair marched into the hospital room.

“Hello, Mr. Ditchgrave. How are you today?”         

Clinch Ditchgrave struggled to breathe through his oxygen tubes. “Who are you?”

“I’m Nurse Shine Mind. You always forget, so I always remind you.”

“Nurse Shine Mind?”

He couldn’t bear to look at the toxic being. His eyes turned instead to the TV hanging from the ceiling, the flowers on the dresser, the white curtains, and the trash can, until he finally gave in to the gravity of her dark eyes, which pierced his tranquil soul like an arrow through the heart of a dove.

“What’s going on?” he asked, wishing he didn’t already know.

Her grim face lit up with a dazzling smile.

“You’re dying, Mr. Ditchgrave. You ask me that every day, so every day I tell you. You’re dying of brain cancer. I tell you the truth because no one else will.”

Nurse Shine Mind moved her face in front of his.

“What are you doing,” he asked.

She leaned closer. Too close. Before he knew what was happening, her lips hit his with a passion not lost on stampeding buffaloes. Her tongue drove into him like a hungry animal.

She pulled away panting for breath. “I always wanted to kiss a dying man.”

She winked, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and marched off. The touch of her lips lingered as he reeled through his life as a jockey. He relived the thrill of synchronizing his body with the motions of a frenzied half-ton animal speeding down the track, balanced above the deadly hooves below.

And, oh, those glorious moments in the winner’s circle. Beautiful girls kissed him, hugged him, and shook their inviting bodies around him. He swelled with pride as cameras flashed and people cheered.

Clinch was one of the lucky few. He’d survived intact in the only sport where a fully equipped ambulance followed the competitors. He broke many bones but still retired healthy at fifty-six. He used his savings to buy land in California and grew grapes to make and sell wine. He hosted parties, and his life grew grander than ever. However, at eighty-seven, he lost feeling and control of his right side and could no longer walk.

Nowadays, he lived moment-to-moment, feeling a new appreciation of life as it faded away. He’d never placed in the big three—the Derby, Preakness, or Belmont—but he’d won many races and had earned a good living.

Shine Mind’s kiss still lingered on his lips as his daughter walked in pushing a twisted girl in a wheelchair. Her nervous husband’s eyes darted around.

The woman’s brown eyes glistened with warmth as she smiled at him. “How are you, Father? Remember me?”

Clinch stared at her. “No.”

“Oh, stop it,” she said. “We all know your long-term memory works just fine.”

Clinch tried to laugh but it hurt. “Yes, it does, Mary. I’m just kidding.”

Her husband adjusted his black glasses. “How are you, Clinch?”

Clinch took a shallow breath. “Good, Mark. You?”

The young man nodded. “Fine. Here’s your lovely granddaughter, Gretchen.”

“Hi, Grandpa,” said the pretty little girl, tipping her black pigtails as she strained to turn her neck askew and greet him with her smiling blue eyes.

“Hi, sweetie,” said Clinch.

With much effort, she sat up straighter.

“I want you to live forever, Grandpa.”

“Gretchen, honey . . .”

He sighed and turned his eyes upward. “I’m going to a blissful place.”

As Clinch’s life was ending, his granddaughter’s was beginning. Of course, hers would be hard. Now seven, she’d become rigid with dystonia. She always smiled, though. He, too, remembered being seven when he first climbed onto the back of a black thoroughbred. He rode many horses thereafter and won his first race at fifteen. He married remarkable women. Not until age sixty-one, though, during his third and final marriage, did he have his first child, a daughter who bore his precious granddaughter.

He remembered . . . he remembered . . . especially what he longed to forget. He remembered his horse bumping into the horse of his best friend, Aaron Blindmine, causing the animal to stumble and send the man into pounding hooves. Aaron survived with paraplegia and died three years ago at eighty-five.

Even now survivor guilt still tormented him.

Clinch had memories . . . memories of the women he’d loved . . . memories of the horses he’d ridden . . .  of the flashing cameras . . . of the laughter with his family among the growing grapes . . . memories of the sun . . . memories of the fun . . . memories that lingered as he took his final breath . . .