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My '67 Chevy Impala wasn't just a car, she was a time machine. Her name was Stella, a name my grandfather bestowed upon her the day he bought her new, the year I was born. He'd hold me as a babe, bouncing me on the plush bench seats, promising adventures we'd have together.
Those adventures started when I was old enough to reach the pedals. Stella and I would sneak out at dawn, the rumble of her V8 engine our secret language. We cruised down dusty backroads, the wind whipping through my hair as I pretended to steer, the world a blur of green and gold.
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