Last January: struggling with the Cyrillic alphabet. I mean, alfaveet.
This February: reciting excerpts of Pushkin.
I am immensely grateful for having been able to study Russian this past year. It's the type of gratitude that is so large I could almost fit Russia inside, maybe with the Urals and a few peninsulas sticking out. It's hard for me to explain what Pushkin means, not just to me, but to Russia. Think Shakespeare, but even more important. And even more lyrical.