In a daze, I stumble up the stone steps I have climbed many times before. I push open the door. I step over an old, tattered carpet worn from all the years of being trampled upon, of all the times mud and dirt were scraped across its surface as people entered, loving and caring people.

My mind blurs again, and I open a second door. I am in a familiar room, with familiar smells and sounds, but one thing, one dear, dear thing, is missing.

Shaken, I look around and freeze as I spot a small bed in the corner of the room. Tears well up in my eyes as I see the truth before me: The bed is empty. I had hoped it was just a nightmare.

It didn't seem real to me until now. I reach out my hand to the bed, clasping nothing but air. What happened to the smooth, frail hand that always happily met my grip, never letting go? What happened to the sweet precious words of song and blessing that always followed?

A flash of memories fills my mind. I remember myself as a small girl, standing by this very bed. My surroundings are a bit clouded because in one's memory, it's easy to forget details. But when I remember looking warmly at Bubbe Maryasha, she shines in my memory as if she is really there.

I almost feel her hand in mine. She asked, "Vos is dein nomen?" – "What is your name?" I looked at her a little puzzled, since I did not know much Yiddish then. My mother answered for me, "Ir nomen is Minya Etta." – "Her name is Minya Etta."

When Bubbe Maryasha heard this, her face lit up and she cried, "Minya Etta? Dos iz mein mamme, mein mamme's nomen." "Minya Etta, this is my mother, my mother's name." I beamed, as I had never thought my name was special. How wrong I was.

Ten minutes later, she turned to me and again asked me for my name. Again, my mother answered, and again the same reaction. This happened countless times. How can I forget the feeling of importance that overwhelmed me?

Another memory flows in, and another, and another. I'm two years old, sitting on my Bubbe's lap. Then I'm four, singing the hasidic tune "Nyet, Nyet Nikavoh" at the top of my lungs. I'm six, kissing her cheeks, and receiving her blessings. I'm nine, holding her hand and singing along to her tapes. I'm 11, listening to her speak softly in Yiddish, while admiring pictures of her as a young woman. I'm 13, another visit like every other one, or so I thought, singing to her while videotaping her humming along.

Four days after my last visit, she passed away peacefully. A tear drop falls down my cheek. I wipe it away.

My memory of her funeral is something that will never fade. I still feel the chill when I remember the wooden box being lowered into the ground. It seemed impossible that her pure, fragile body was inside, sleeping peacefully.

As I looked around at my surroundings, I was amazed at the sight. Children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, great-great-grandchildren, cousins, second cousins, hundreds upon hundreds of Bubbe's descendants all around me (she had over 590 direct descendants.) Here we were, united again, or maybe even together for the very first time, laughing over old memories, the relatives talking about themselves to one another, recounting our own personal stories with Bubbe Maryasha.

Another memory comes. It was last year at the annual women's convention in Crown Heights, Brooklyn. We are on the bus, and I'm talking to someone about my Bubbe Maryasha. A girl about my age hears me and says, "She is also my great-great-grandmother."

Somewhere at the back of the bus, another girl shouts, "I'm related to her, too…." There is also a girl who says she is somehow related. My fifth cousin and very close friend is related to me through her.

This memory is still lodged in my mind. Not because I thought it was remarkable to be related to so many people, but because just then I realized how many souls one woman had brought down – one strong, determined woman.

I close my eyes, blanking out memories, but envisioning facts. During Bubbe Maryasha's 106 years in this world, she fought for her life and the lives of her children. She fought for their physical, as well as spiritual, survival.

At my bat mitzva, my theme was Great Jewish Women, those who served God through their resourcefulness and creativity. Needless to say, Bubbe was one of them. Her resilience and intelligent mind was what helped her to live and raise a beautiful family. She was, and forever will remain, my heroine.