Creeping down the church basement stairs all these years later, I was struck by how much everything—and nothing—had changed since then. The carpet was still ugly and brown, but my dress was no longer old and black and itchy. It was pink and cotton and new. The walls were still papered with faded flowers, but my face wasn’t gritty with sweat and dirt. It was clean and powdered, enhanced with lipstick and blush. And the air still smelled old down here, like books and mothballs,
Why do church basements aways smell the same no matter where you go? Or is that just me?
