Becoming the Ancestor

Can you imagine others who'll come
         after you (if it were possible, meaning, 
if the world you know wouldn't have
         ended yet), sorting through photos 
on thumb drives or in the Cloud, piecing
        together parts of stories they heard second- 
or third-hand? Perhaps the one you took outside 
        your first apartment, standing in front of your first 
car (a blue compact sedan) with the key in one hand 
        and the loan  agreement in the other, wondering 
if you should've smiled when the agent at the dealership
       boomed Congratulations! doesn't this make you 
feel more American now? and wondering if you 
       should have told him your naturalization 
ceremony was two months down the road? 
      Perhaps, that first Christmas when you and your
husband went back and forth about going out 
     for a real tree, and then when you finally decided,
it was too late and there was no more to be had
     from any of the lots nearby? Will they notice
that in some of the pictures taken in more 
      recent summers, your hair has gotten visibly
thinner at the top? The panoramic view 
      makes the living room wider and the kitchen
somehow more cozy. There's the hand-me-down
     piano that took five people to carry across
the threshold. There's the counter perennially
     piled with books out of place next to a bowl
of fruit, where on holidays or celebrations you'd 
     lay out a food offering for the ancestors.