First, grieve. Mourn the loss of the past and of the future. Grieve for months, years if you must.

Then, remember what you’re good at, and go pull those old garlands out of storage. It’s time to plan a party.

Call it Apocalypse Day, or Survival Day, whichever suits your mood. Your new holiday will join a long tradition of defiant celebration. Besides, your people have survived crueler things than this twist of nature. Even if you skipped temple more often than not, you know how the old saying goes: they tried to kill us, we survived, let’s eat.

Send out the invitations, by way of bike messengers and posters tacked on crumbling black-ash trees. Invite anyone and everyone. All survivors welcome. If they made it this far, they deserve a dinner party.

Set the table for twelve, as many as can fit. Pull your greying hair back into a neat bun and head for the kitchen. Your wife can make her world-famous brisket, which might actually be world-famous now that the world is much smaller. Do your best to help and you will eventually be relegated to mashing potatoes, which is the only way you won’t set the stove on fire.

Wait for the guests to arrive, in ones and twos, by bike and by foot. Help them hang their respirators on the coat rack and set aside a table for their piles of dark sunglasses. Welcome them with light and laughter and the rich smell of good food, no matter how hard it was to find.

Don’t be surprised when friends and even strangers bring gifts of their own. From glass ornaments to fresh marigolds, they will help bring the old to the new. There hasn’t been much celebration since the end of times. It’s time to change that. They will help you, given the opportunity.

Keep them from the food for now. It will be difficult, but they will not listen once they have started eating. Seat them around your carefully fortified living room and ask them to tell their stories. You will have to go first. Be brave.

Once the ice is broken, your guests will speak. They will share tales of unimaginable loss and suffering, but also of joy and laughter. They will tell you about finding the perfect cloth for hair ribbons in the attic of a half-burnt house, about falling in love with the shoemaker who fixed their worn-down sole. They will tell you about living, not just surviving.

After you have listened, then you may return to the kitchen. The brisket is ready. Dish out the potatoes and pour the last of the wine to those who need it most. Sit next to your wife and hold her hand beneath the table. Look around the room and see the people you have brought close, the lives you have made warm. Know that you have done a good thing today, and every guest in attendance will remember it in a year’s time, even if they are far from this happy home. Eat. Drink. Be merry.

If, in the ebb and flow of dinnertime conversation, Danny from down by the riverbank tells his son that your wife is your sister, don’t let it slide. This is your world now. No quarter for bigots. Don’t worry: everyone will have your back, even his son. It is your choice whether or not to let him stay.

Clear the table and leave the dishes in the sink. Take the fresh apples that Hunter has brought from their orchard and cut them with knives that will see no more violence. Serve the slices with honey for a sweet future ahead.

Before you move on, look again to the past. Light a yahrzeit candle, found half-forgotten in a back closet, for those lost in the ash and dust. Keep it with the marigolds. Let it burn until the next sundown, when it will sputter out as you put away washed dishes and take down the tattered garlands.

But right now, in the final rays of fading sunlight, tune in to the synth pop of the last remaining radio station. Clear the living room floor. Pull your wife close to your still-beating heart, and party like it’s the end of the world.