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.