Endless days blurred into months of upheaval. We strove to forge forward. Twenty-one readers reveal the single object that defined the tenor of these times

Pharaoh Costume

The call came Erev Pesach.

COVID. My father-in-law had passed away. We had thought he was going home. Hashem had other plans.

Everything stopped and everything started spinning all at once. A call to our posek and suddenly my husband was sitting shivah on the floor, out of commission. I had minutes left to get rid of the chometz, tape everything up, and cook. Unable to think, I still flew into action.

Amid all the cooking, baths, and Yom Tov prep, there was a levayah too, over Zoom. So surreal. It highlighted the bizarre times we were living through.

Somehow, we made it through and arrived at candle lighting. The kids were ready with smiles and the tables set. How, I’ll never know. But seeing my husband, now an avel without his kittel at the Seder, left a raw hole in our new reality.

We started the Seder. When we reached Maggid, my husband disappeared. A few minutes later he came back, dressed head-to-toe as Pharaoh.

Suddenly, the entire atmosphere changed. The kids started giggling, then broke into full laughter as my husband proceeded to dance around the room with them, run through the Yam Suf, and sing, pure joy on his face. You’d never would have known what had taken place only 12 hours earlier.

It was then I knew we were going to be okay, that just like Hashem saved us from Pharaoh all those years ago, He will save us from this as well. Because in that costume, I saw our nation’s resilience.

— Sarah Schwartz, Las Vegas

Milk

These days, a colorful array of blue and green milks dot my fridge. The red ones are thankfully being consumed by my kids, but the blue and green ones are waiting forlornly for takers.

Believe me, I tried everything. I attempted to blackmail my kids into drinking them. I offered some to my elderly neighbor (her kids had already given her their extras). I even gave some to my cleaning lady. But I still had a ton of bottles left.

My husband urged me to just dump them, but I couldn’t. It wasn’t just my concerns about bal tashchis. To me, they’re precious, symbolizing the bountiful, boundless chesed Hashem has showered us with in these challenging times.

During this uncertain period, when my job as a Mommy is a full-fledged , everlasting occupation, I knew there was at least one thing I could rely on. I knew that amid the tumult of endless tantrums and persistent messes, those bottles of milk and those fresh meals would show up no matter what.

To me, these bottles don’t just hold milk; the snow-white liquid inside them represents the love and care that was sent my way during these dreary times.

— Mirel Schlissel, Brooklyn, NY

Pilled Knit Skirt

My knit skirt is pilled. Pilled in the you-look-homeless-please-throw-that-out kind of way.

I bought it early March at a 70-percent-off sale, it’s midi length and powder blue and I planned on wearing it on off days with a t-shirt. I could dress it up if I wanted to; I had big plans for this skirt. But we all know how that worked out, for me, for the world.

I washed the skirt once, it pilled terribly. If I had paid full price I would have returned it. If the store was open, I would have complained. Instead, I wore it. And I wore it again the next day, and the day after, and the day after that.

Three months later, it’s my COVID uniform. Super comfortable and practical, with my baby who I’ve dubbed “Sir Hem-Clinger” pulling himself up on my skirt, I don’t worry about upkeep or things like leftover oatmeal clumps.

It’s June and me and my midi are BFFs. I can’t understand why I ever thought to throw it out, why I thought it unworthy.

Apparently, I’ve been dressing for other people all along.

— Esther Kurtz, Passaic, NJ