“How do you do it? I mean don’t you feel stifled? Sweaty? Do you ever eat? I’ve never so much as seen you even adjust your mask”

Click. Click. There are 17 callers on the line. Please announce yourself.

This part is always awkward.

“Hello, it’s Chava,” I say into the general hubbub.

They don’t hear.

Over static and crying babies and running water, I try to catch the drift of the conversation. Something about increased restrictions. What else is new?

“My husband’s sister is getting married in two days, I can’t believe we’re still in Israel,” Fraida is saying.

Someone — Ruchi? — says, “Ooh, Fraida, what are you doing?”

“I don’t know, my father in law’s trying something, government-connection stuff… We can’t miss it you know.”

Course not. She’d married rich, and her sister-in-law’s wedding was gonna be special, even if it was just in a backyard.

“Okay, guys, nice schmoozing,” Tzippy says. “But now let’s hear something meaningful. Anyone have anything to say on the parshah, on Pesach?”

This is my cue. I breathe, waiting for the inevitable. Thirty-second pause, dishes clinking in different kitchens, different cities. No more crying babies; some of the women must’ve muted themselves.

My phone buzzes. Tzippy, obviously. Chava you on???

I don’t bother replying, just clear my throat and say, “So I just heard this vort. We know that Moshe Rabeinu was k’vad peh, he had a speech impediment. We can ask, why would Hashem send a blemished messenger?” I close my eyes, recall the shiur, and deliver it with suitable aplomb.

“Good stuff, Chava,” Malky says when I’m done. “Reminds me of Rebbetzin Schlessinger’s class…”

A chorus of “Aaaahs,” “How long has it been?” “Four years is forever,” and general goodbyes. I hear a decidedly masculine-sounding voice in the background and hang up.

Four years out of seminary and boom, life happened. For my classmates.

The Erev Rosh Chodesh calls had been Tzippy’s idea. We’d had what, 40 calls so far? 45? And in those months, people’s statuses changed like a snap of the finger. Three snaps: Engaged, married, mother.

But some of us couldn’t even seem to put thumb and forefinger together.