the state or quality of lasting forever I wish I remembered the last time I rode in your car. I do remember other rides. Climbing into the cramped backseat of the ‘96 Sentra—always behind the passenger’s seat, never the driver’s—ingrained in me to always buckle up first. The resounding click of the belt locking into place and I could relax, slumping back against gray seats, the fabric like soft fuzz on the skin of a peach. Mema hated to drive so you were always the one behind the wheel, the one to always reach a hand back, crossing through patches of sun warming my legs until you found me. A knee. A calf. A hand. The small fingers of a child curling around your doughy skin, aged with wrinkles and rough work but always gentle with me. Maybe it’s better I don’t remember the last car ride with you where your eyes were failing, tires crossing the double yellow, your mind shaded by clouds. Instead I am six, seven, eight years old, forever safe in the bubble of your blue car, sunshine bathing my legs and your hand clutching mine.