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Mary Chapin Carpenter
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What To Keep And What To Throw Away
These are your instructions, should you chose to follow
Sit down with pen and paper, begin with something hollow
At the past words you offer a kind of explanation
And only take up places that do not need to say them.
Open up the closet, find this winter coat there
Check inside the pockets, find a couple notes
It says 'milk and Sunday paper' and a heart smudged in blue
You fold it up and box it before you have time to think.
Sundays are the hardest, a void from near your backroads
Erased the old phone numbers, delete all the photos
And those you haven't heard of come as no surprise
They made the calculations when they chose aside.
These are your instructions and you become repulsive
And old friends say they miss you and sleep becomes illusive
Fill up every journal, empty every shoe box
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Turn the lists and letters, sweep out all the old thoughts
Shake off all the covers, roll every window open
Stand here with the bare feet welcoming the morning
These are your instructions and places left you stranded,
But you are lost and wounded, bleeding and abandoned.
It's the tourniquet for pressure that I knew it's healing
It's a prayer for good measure when you think you've lost all feeling
Walking to the guest room, the last place he was sleeping
See the outline on the pillow, smooth it without weeping.
One last final walkthrough, move the bags and boxes
From front porch to the back seat, probably ain't the losing
These are your instructions if you choose to follow
Stop and take a big breath, begin with something hollow.
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