There’s a vintage shop in the far east end of Toronto called Gadabout. It sells everything old, much of it Canadiana, but I go for the drawers upon drawers brimming with postcards and black and white family photos. When I buy a bunch, I sort them by decade; if you look at the framed postcards on my walls that span the start of the twentieth century to the end of the sixties, the changes in style and topics from one decade to next are easy to track. I own a few vintage family photos by strangers, and I mix them with my own family photos from the corresponding era or hang them together. On the south wall of my apartment right now there is a hand-written land purchasing agreement from 1900 from the city of Ulcinj, Principality of Montenegro, next to a photo of an unknown Toronto family of nine outside on the porch of a brick house, dressed in their Edwardian best, from around the same time. I have no roots in Ontario or Canada, but after nineteen years of living somewhere, you develop phantom roots—which, just like the phantom limbs, can tickle and ache without having to exist.