What I remember: I awoke to my mother’s presence in my room, telling me: “Daddy had another heart attack; this time he’s not coming home.”

Most of the rest is a blur.I was 10 years old at the time, my sister 12. I don’t remember if we still shared a room at this point, or if my mother had to tell us this news separately. I can’t imagine how hard it was for my mother, who had just lost the love of her life, who really never would recover.

I don’t remember the funeral, although I’m certain my sister and I were there. I remember the days leading up to it, though hazily. I remember a near-constant stream of guests in our house, relatives, and probably family friends, spending time with us girls as my mother…did what? Made funeral preparations? Cried her eyes out in another room? Telephoned far-flung relatives and acquaintances to share her terrible, sad news? All of the above?

I remember sitting at the glass-topped table next to the picture window in our living room, playing games with someone visiting our house. I don’t remember the visitors, though I can only imagine they included aunts and uncles, my grandmother who had just lost her youngest son, the neighbors we were closest to. I think this went on for several days; I’m not sure.

All of this is a haze at this point. I have my father’s obituary in a scrapbook. I have the memorial program and the sign-in visitors’ log from his funeral. I have a box from my mother’s house with every sympathy card we received, including some from my grade-school friends. I have a few memories of my father, not nearly as many as I wish.

Some years back, I was visiting my aunt, and she gave me a videotape of home-movie footage. The images on it were mostly of her family—my uncle, two cousins, herself, some of their more distant relatives who aren’t directly related to me. But she wanted me to have it, she said, because it included a short segment with my father. I don’t remember exactly when this was, but it was probably at least three decades after his death. I came home and popped the tape into the VCR to watch with my husband, and when we reached the part with my father I was overcome. Here was a man I remember only vaguely but who played a pivotal role in my life and development—not just by conceiving me with my mother, not just by helping to rear me for 10 years, but also, and maybe especially, by dying suddenly when I was so young, a loss that defined me in many ways—and I could see him moving around, interacting with other family members. I have no memory that includes my father’s movements; to see them was utterly overwhelming. These are silent home movies, so I can’t hear his voice, but just the image was enough to render me mute and tearful.

This is what I have left of my father—this videotape, his favorite sweater (I still wear it), and a few fading memories. And myself and my sister, of course. We live on in our children, so I know my father lives on in me, but I have to remind myself of that; it’s not the same as remembering him.

Ask me what else happened in 1971, and I’ll have to go to an almanac or Google to tell you. For me, the year began and ended on January 14. The day my father died.

Thanks to my friend Karen, whose reminiscence of her grandmother’s death prompted this piece.