Every childhood house has a threshold space — the in-between of outside and

Every childhood house has a threshold space — the in-between of outside and inside. Ours was the mudroom.

It smelled like: • wet boots • woodsmoke • old coats • the metallic tang of winter air warming too quickly • dog hair that refused to vacuum • mud turning to dust in the corners

It was the scent of transition. Not clean, not dirty — becoming.

I didn’t know it then, but the mudroom was my first liminal space, the first lesson in how humans are always crossing between states of being. Coat on, coat off. Inside, outside. Warmth, cold. Child, almost-adult.

I find that smell in my mind at odd times — right before change.