 Every time I've gone to 1119 Bayard and stood on the sidewalk, I've tried to picture it. My family there, long ago. Frida, in her thirties, at the cash register against her will. My dad as a little boy opening boxes and putting stuff on shelves. I'm not great at that kind of thing. It's like trying to summon ghosts with a Ouija board, and the little pointer refuses to budge. We've all got these spots from our family's past.