A Year of Borrowed Hope

Don’t know who that is next to me either. Don’t know why my hair looks red. That goddamn year.

It’s weird that I only remember my first roommate’s name. Or maybe it’s not. That year, 1996, it was a long time ago, and it was a strange year. I have memories like student films, fuzzy and obscure. A driving scene. A car I borrowed from Airman Brightwell or m…