Eleven months.  Is that a long time?  Is that a short time?  My friend Albert Einstein would point out that a moving clock is slower than a stationary one, and that speed is in the eye of the beholder anyway. You know, much as I admire a fellow hairbrush-phobe, sometimes I just wish Al would give a goddamn straight answer.  All I know is that one of the last things Michael said to me was, "Anastasia, you are important.  Maybe the most important thing there is."  And the last thing I said to him was, "I'm going to make you proud of me."  All things being equal, I guess eleven months is pretty much equivalent to being a work in progress, but I kind of hope he's proud of his wild, crazy, big-hearted, unpredictable, laughter-filled, generous, hip-shaking, and still-optimistic-despite-all-the-bullshit girl.  I am. Like my own hair, I am untamable.

"If you are not living,
if you, beloved, my love,
if you
have died,
all the leaves will fall on my breast,
it will rain upon my soul night and day,
the snow will burn my heart,
I shall walk with cold and fire and death and snow,
my feet will want to march toward where you sleep,
i shall go on living,
because you wanted me to be, above all things,

Pablo Neruda, "La Muerta"