The walls of our new home seem to exhale with each burst of laughter from the kitchen, the atmosphere pulsing with a blend of chaos and tradition as my family shuffles around in preparation for the Seder. Pop-Pop Moe's stories are the thread weaving through the busy hum, his voice a familiar comfort that finds Jamila's attentive face amidst the organized disarray.

I stand just within the threshold, leaning against the cool, unblemished doorframe. Everything smells overwhelmingly new--the paint, the furniture, even the floors--and it's like the sharp, tangy aroma of change has saturated the air. Part of me is still coming to grips with the fact that this polished, open expanse used to be the cozy, cramped space I called home. More room to move, but somehow the intimacy feels amplified in the openness. I feel vulnerable. Unused to these modern architectural standards.

Mom is the undisputed conductor of this symphony in the kitchen, her movements practiced and precise, the product of heritage and years spent at my grandfather's elbow - the good one. I mean the good grandfather, not the good elbow. I think both of Pop-Pop's elbows are bad. Even after another almost clandestine meeting with Grandma Camilla, conducted in the strictly regimented space that is 'my mom picking me up from physical therapy, and Camilla is in the passenger seat', nobody will tell me anything about the other Grandpa. The bad one.

Don't they know I'm a reckless teenager, and that sort of thing only makes me want to know more?

Anyway.

The soft clang of pots, the hiss of onions on the stove, the sweet scent of wine, they all knit together into the tapestry of anticipation that is Passover.

Ben, dad, weaves his way through the house with an air of distracted focus, each item in his hands part of the intricate dance that is setting up the Seder table. The ceremonial plate, a mosaic of symbols and meaning, finds its place amidst folds of white linen--a tableau of both memory and promise. Haggadahs fan out with the whisper of pages waiting to be turned, and all the other ritual items--the Charoset, bitter herbs, and a cup of wine for Elijah--stand by as silent witnesses to the centuries - old narrative we're about to replay.

When I was a little kid, I really hated Passover. Like, really hated it. I'm not exactly fond of it still, because it requires me to sit still for an extended period of time, but I can at least have a little more respect for what it means. Whatever it means to me, which I'm still not sure.

Pop-Pop Moe, as if he's the guardian of these tales, punctuates his recounting with theatrical hand motions, drawing small circles of emphasis in the air that captivate Jamila. There's a flicker of something--mirth, maybe pride--in his eyes as he glances at me, his tales brushing against the edges of my understanding, a testament to resilience and the gravity of our traditions.

I'm like a buoy set adrift amid these currents of preparation, half-helping and half-watching as I hover uncertainly, occasionally offering an extra hand or escaping a flustered elbow. I've not quite reconciled the sturdiness under my feet with the lingering adrenaline that remembers the violence shaking these same foundations.

"Sam, can you pass me the salt?" my Mom calls, tugging me from my reverie.

And just like that, I'm wrenched back into the now, the role of assistant immediately embraced. I shuffle past the new dining set--a scuffed fixture bearing fresh nicks--and forage through the cupboards still unfamiliar in their order, until my fingers find the coarse granules that hold more weight than their volume suggests.

We're patched up, this place and us. Wounds closed, walls fortified. But somewhere under the stitches, there's still healing to be done. And as I pass the salt, I wonder how many Seders it will take before the smell of newness fades into the background, before the pangs for a missing picture frame or a well-worn couch cushion no longer catch us unaware. How long does it take to ablate the leather back to its old feeling? I learned that word the other day from Gossamer, by the way. Ablate. It's cool. I like that word.

Tonight, though, is about heritage, family, and telling the story of how we were once bound, and now are free. The narrative we're a part of is as layered as the history it honors, and in that sense, every brisket sliced and matzah broken is a homage to the continuity of our shared experience. It's the lingering notes in Pop-Pop Moe's voice that link us to Queens, and it's in the shine of the Seder plate that I catch glimpses of all the tables that came before.

The dusk of April folds itself into the evening through sheer curtains, reminding me that the Seder is not just a remembrance, but a living, breathing moment that we're actively shaping--line by line, prayer by prayer, laugh by mixed-up reply. Wine glass by wine glass.

And somehow, amidst the crispness of new chairs and the alien lines of reimagined walls, we find the pulse of age-old tradition. The heartbeat of Passover as constant as the rhythm of waves--retelling, rejoicing, and rededicating ourselves to the narrative we carry forward, to the people we are becoming.

Time pirouettes as sunlight retreats, nudging us gently into the twilight sanctuary of our Passover observance. Candle flames dance and flicker, catching the glint in Jamila's eye as I try to lay out the blueprint of this ancestral patchwork evening for her.

"So the story goes," I start, waving a hand toward the Seder plate as I feel out the threads of our conversation, "each of these items is a symbol. The lamb shank bone, there, that's the korban Pesach, the sacrifice back in the temple days."

Jamila leans in, curiosity lighting her gaze. "And the egg?"

I grin. "Beitzah, it represents the festival sacrifice that was offered at the temple too but…" I falter for a moment, reality pulling the rug out from under my theatrical presentation. "Honestly, I'm not quite sure why an egg. Just… traditional, I guess?"

Her chuckle is the olive branch extending back to me--a quiet forgiveness for my skipped beats of cultural clarity.

"I get the gist of it," she reassures me, her hand brushing mine with a comforting ease. "I'll follow your lead."

The kitchen's buzz escalates to a crescendo of "almost readies" and "two minutes," signaling the imminent beginning of our Seder night parade. Amidst the flurry of activity, I catch a whiff of the brisket, mingled with the sweet sting of Manischewitz, the only acceptable grape juice manufacturer, teasing the corners of my mouth into a hungry smile.

As the table rounds into the final stages of preparation, I sidle up to my Mom at the counter, where she's arranging the last of the haroset. "Hey, Mom," I venture, hands tucked into my pockets to present the image of nonchalance, "since I'm fifteen now, can I have some wine tonight?"

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She doesn't miss a beat, despite the hiss of the oven, as her eyebrow arches. "Wine? Absolutely not."

I prop myself onto the counter with a sigh, my next words out before I can leash them. "But it doesn't even affect me. My powers and all."

The silence that follows wraps itself around my throat--a noose made of too-sharp curiosity and Mom's sudden hawk-like attention. My Dad's eyes suddenly turn, just a little too hard, towards me.

Rachel turns, wiping her hands on her apron as she zeroed in on me. "And just how, exactly, would you know that, Samantha?"

Cue the inward cringe--my default setting when I've stepped too far over the line of parental comfort. My voice stumbles into the void, my reply a cocktail of murmurs and evasions.

Ben steps in with a chuckle that carries a note of let's-talk-about-this-later. "Conversation for another time, but tonight, stick with the grape juice. You're on too many medications as it is."

My protest is half-hearted, more ritual than rebellion, as the reality sinks in. I glance over at Pop-Pop Moe and Jamila, now in deep debate over whether comic books count as legitimate literature, a playful spark underpinning the clash of opinions.

"Yeah, no superpower is going to help you when you get sick from mixing alcohol and meds," she quips, handing me a cup brimming with sparkling grape juice--a consolation prize shimmering with carbonated promise. I pointedly don't mention that my powers probably would help that, but, whatever.

As the seder finds its starting block, a knock at the door syncs up with the closing notes of the 'Dayenu'. It's one of those thumping, make-yourself-at-home kind of knocks.

The door swings open, revealing a whirlwind of a woman, her artificially straightened hair a frizzy testament to her always-running-late lifestyle. She's a twenty-year old force of nature wrapped up in slogans and thrift-store chic, clutching dog-eared Moleskine notebooks against her as though they're state secrets. "Shalom, everybody! Did I miss the plagues?"

Abigail - Abby - edges into the room, still out of breath, an infectious grin plastered on her face as she makes her rounds, giving awkward elbow bumps probably out of an abundance of caution over lingering flu season fears.

"Oh sweet, kosher for Passover Coke!" Abby exclaims, practically lunging for the two-liter bottle sitting innocuously among the spread of seder-friendly refreshments.

Meanwhile, my father tactically redirects her enthusiasm. "There's a place for you at the table next to Sam, Abby. Slide in, and we'll start."

And slide in she does, her arrival folding seamlessly into the fabric of the Small family tapestry.

Dad clears his throat, drawing the room's focus to him with an ease born from years of leading this ceremony. He lifts the silver goblet--an heirloom that's survived more moves and matzot crumbs than I care to count--and his voice rings clear as he ushers in Kadesh with the ancient words of Kiddush. Everyone joins in, the melody a familiar weave of our history, spilling out from every corner of the house as we honor the time-worn tradition.

Pop-Pop Moe's voice rises and falls in sync with Dad's, an auditory bridge spanning generations, while Mom's soprano threads harmony into the tapestry of our chant. Abby's leaning into the words like they're a warm embrace from an old friend.

Meanwhile, Jamila's silent, a respectful onlooker to the sanctity of the moment. The soft glow of the candles reflects in her dark eyes, hinting at the quiet contemplation beneath her serene exterior.

Next up, Urchatz, the ceremonial handwashing that suddenly feels super practical, what with Abby's timely and slightly annoying reminder of the recent coronavirus wave. We take turns at the sink, not speaking -- tradition dictates it, I'm pretty sure -- while drying our hands on some fancier-than-our-usual hand towels.

Once everyone resettles, the Karpas follows. I grab a sprig of parsley for Jamila, handing it to her along with a small bowl of saltwater. "Dip this into there," I instruct, demonstrating with my own, "It's like… humility and tears or something."

She gives a solemn nod, mimicking my movements with care. "It's to remind us of the springtime, and the tears of our ancestors," I continue. "Or just another reason to make things more complicated than having a normal meal, probably."

My joke lands with a soft chuckle from her, which earns an eyebrow-raise from Mom and a smile from Pop-Pop. I continue the cycle, waiting for the horseradish next--because hey, it's not a real celebration until we eat something that actively tries to punish our sinuses.

Her willingness to dip parsley into saltwater for the sake of my heritage swells in me a mixture of gratitude and connection beyond words or powers. It's an understanding that tastes of saltwater and rings with the blessings of the Kiddush.

But man, Parsley tastes bad.

Dad's hands are steady as he retrieves the middle matzah from beneath the white cloth. His voice takes on a lighthearted note as he addresses the room. "Next, we break the middle matzah." The crisp snap of the matzah cut through the murmurs of conversation like a conductor's baton bidding the orchestra to silence. Half gets tucked away, wrapped up neatly for the afikoman, and Dad gives me a sidelong wink, trusting me with the ritual.

"It's like a hostage negotiation, but with more fiber and less ransom," Abby pipes up, with a laugh that cracks through her usual bravado. "But only a little less ransom."

Jamila's brow crinkles in pure bewilderment. "Afikoman?" she mouths silently to me "Matzah?". I lean in close.

"The afikoman," I whisper back, "is the dessert matzah. We hide it, and the kids have to find it. It's supposed to keep them awake and engaged… because nothing says 'fun' like scouring for bread. Also, the finder gets a prize. And matzah is a giant cracker. We'll explain that later."

My words spring a web of realization across Jamila's features--a wondrous captivation mingled with the slightest hint of 'this is absolutely bonkers'.

"So, you guys aren't worried about supervillains showing up for round two on this place?" Abby asks, glancing around at the freshly painted walls and her nostrils twitching at the faint smell of new couch.

"Oh, not at all. S… security is being provided courtesy of the city," My Mom answers for me.

Abby's eyebrows furrow a degree. "Security detail, huh? That's one way to ensure a peaceful dinner."

She says it light, with the ease of someone who jokes to keep the monsters at bay, but the color drains a fraction from her face. I lean back, swivelling a piece of the afikoman in my fingers. "Yeah, since the house got bowled over by a dinosaur, there's, like… a little outpost somewhere nearby. I think they bought one of the empty houses, and they keep tabs on the neighborhood in case the bad guys come back. Can you imagine them knocking during the Four Questions?"

There's no mirth in her quick, tight-lipped smile. "Yeah. Crazy."

"I don't think it's anything more than a single officer at a time, actually," My Dad interrupts, but my Mom seems to be reading something that I'm missing and makes a quick throat-slashing motion towards him. I pretend not to notice it as I get up to hide the afikomen.

As I stash the wrapped matzah on the windowsill behind gauzy curtains, I pause for a moment to glance outside. The dwindling light flirts with the darkening street, casting lengthening shadows that crawl alongside the indifferent shape of cars and bikes parked alongside the street.

For a beat, there's silence in my chest--a pulse-less hesitation that tightens around the ease I'd feigned moments before. But then life rushes back into the space between beats, the night calling for our attention, for wine spills and laughter lines, and the next stage of our tradition comes into focus--the procession of plagues and a tale of deliverance that never tires with the retelling.

The flickering candlelight ushers us onward. "Ready for locusts and lice?" I tease Jamila, trying to inject a sense of normalcy, a distraction from the grown-up undertones nipping at our ankles.

She nods, humor twined with an adventurous spark in her eyes. "As I'll ever be," she responds, diving into the next chapter of this bizarrely beautiful chronicle with a bravery that makes my heart swell--a little with pride, a lot with love.

Dad clears his throat once more, and we're back to it. I grimace preemptively at the thought of the bitter herbs, eyeing the horseradish with a begrudged respect. Just another lesson in the paradox of heritage--pain, sacrifice and salvation, all rolled into one.