I vividly remember bragging to my friends in third grade that my first car was going to be a shiny, red convertible. So, as I dragged my parents to the used car lot the day after getting my license, I suppose you could say I had some lofty expectations.

But then, I saw that shiny, silver, 2001 Suzuki basking in the hot June sun. I was bewitched. The vintage cloth seats complimented the scattered dents on the bumper perfectly. It smelled of pine trees, Windex, and pure adventure. This was going to be "my first car".

Over those 30,000 miles, we became the best of friends. She saw me at my best, windows rolled down, celebrating everything from my first prom to my last day of high school. She also saw me at my worst, as I sat in my car crying after my first breakup blasting the ballads of Taylor Swift.

Our second winter together, we got in our first crash. With a little black ice and a lot of urgency to get to class on time, we were sent spinning into the median. I clutched the steering wheel, frozen in fear, and screamed as I tried to stop. Lucky, the only fatality was a back tire and a poor, unlucky traffic sign.

I often even sat in my car in silence, outside of my house before going in, just listening to music and thinking. In fact, it was here I listened to my favorite song for the first time. And then again. And then 34 more times. As crazy and impulsive as it sounds, I even decided where I was going to college in my car.

Leaving for school, I made sure to say goodbye to each and every person I loved. I had my bags packed, tears shed, and thought I was ready to go. But right before leaving my house, I opened my car door one more time. It was a part thank you, part I'm sorry, part I'll see you soon.

Every time I come home, I always find an excuse to drive that dinged-up little SUV, even if it's a ten minute drive to nowhere. The smell of old coffee, the radio stations all preset to country, all of it brings me back to a time when life was nothing but a blissful cruise down the highway.