The threshold was the strip of wood or metal where the door met the floor. Oak or brass or sometimes just a piece of tin nailed down. The threshold was the line. One side was yours. The other side was the hallway. The threshold was the border between private and public and you crossed it every time you opened the door. Nobody thought about it. Everybody stepped on it.

The threshold wore down in the middle. A hundred years of shoes and boots and bare feet and the wood sank into a curve. A shallow valley in the shape of coming and going. You could read the threshold like a tree ring. The deeper the valley the older the building. The deeper the valley the more people had crossed. The threshold was the building's odometer.

The threshold kept the draft out. The door closed against the threshold and the threshold sealed the gap and the wind stayed in the hallway. When the threshold wore down the draft came through. You felt the cold at your feet and you knew the threshold was losing its war with the floor. The super put a weather strip on it. Foam rubber. The foam rubber did what the oak used to do and the oak felt insulted.

There was a superstition. Do not step on the threshold. Step over it. The Romans believed the threshold was sacred. The bride was carried over the threshold because the threshold was where the spirits lived. My grandmother said do not stand in the doorway. In or out. The threshold was not a place to linger. The threshold was a decision.

They do not build thresholds anymore. The door meets the floor and the floor is level and the door swings and there is no line. No border. No decision point. The apartment begins wherever the carpet changes color. The threshold said here is where your life starts. The carpet says it is all the same.

See also: Vestibule, Door Knocker