Yesterday was the 17th, or the 7-month anniversary of my Father's death. On every other 17th since February, I was well aware of the date and its significance. Yesterday was the first 17th that I didn't think of the fact that it was an anniversary, until my mother brought it up after dinner. It's not that I didn't think of my father, because I do every day. I just hadn't thought of the anniversary. Which I think is a good thing. Maybe next month I'll go through the whole day without thinking about it.