Soon, it’s not just him, it’s my neighbors and mother’s friend too. Everything is in flux with waves of corona disruption. The simplest of givens, like going to the kids for Yom Tov or moving into family become question marks, and then get crossed off the realms of possibility. With corona, there’s no company that’s safe. Nobody can buy immunity.

Alone, people are opening emptied Pesach cabinets, turning over their kitchens, preparing a menu for one person for eight days of Pesach. It’s unthinkable, but it’s happening, a Yom Tov alone, a Seder with its ceremony and symbolism and family customs, alone, alone, alone. Ask the Four Questions to a silent room, answer to your echo.

My home is busy. There’s fragrant matzah and spilled grape juice and Makkos puppets, then the three-day Yom Tov draws to a close and we’re all checking up on each other, comparing notes. I’m thinking of the solo Seders, sure the participants had drunk grape juice mixed with tears. Nervously, I ask my mother how her friends alone managed. The admiration is rich in her voice when she responds.

One after the other, she says, the isolated Seder-makers have emerged as heroes, shone a light on a potential black hole. There was white damask, cloth napkins, crystal, and a full ke’arah; they placed the matzos for Kohein, Levi, and Yisrael and raised their voices for Kiddush. No shortcuts, no rushing.

“I took down eight Haggados, I wanted to do it properly,” said one friend. “At the end, I read four of them.”

Another, who is musical, sung her way through all the songs. Her candles flickered on a table set for one, her late husband’s seat was empty, but she sang from slavery to freedom, voice strong in the empty house, a survivor on a wave of faith.

One grandmother alone finished the Seder at 1 a.m. She sang all the songs and followed a translated version too. With no one watching, no one to impress, the meal, four tiny courses served on china, was prepared fit for a King. Because it was served in His honor.

And as the night drew to a close, my parents’ neighbor, who “hid” and “found” her afikomen herself, as per the family minhag. And then, she turned to her Father, with a small request: “Next Yom Tov meal, please can I be with my family?”

I realize that under the false tranquility of these days, beneath the inner turbulence and grief, there’s another layer of true peace deep inside us, a core strength that persists and perseveres. I think of these heroes, unsung special individuals who met Hashem’s commands with such loyalty, one on One.

Next week, I’ll be clapping for you.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 689)