Don't Tell Mom Where I Live

[Chorus — deep clean baritone; immediate acoustic strumming with restrained drums] Don't tell Mom where I live, Don't give her what I wouldn't give. Tell her I'm somewhere doing fine, Tell her I still work nights sometimes. If she asks whether I call home, Say I've been busy, leave it alone. And if she says she misses her kid— Tell her I miss her. Just don't tell her where I live. [Verse 1 — drums drop; fingerpicked acoustic guitar, conversational cadence] My sister called last Tuesday night, Said, "Mom's been asking. Is that all right?" I heard her television play, Three hundred miles and years away. She said Mom found my Christmas card, Read the return address too hard. Thank God I'd mailed it out of town. My sister didn't make a sound. Then softly said, "She isn't well." I said, "I know." What else could help? There's love that doesn't make things safe, And distance doesn't make love fake. [Verse 2 — longer; low bass and mandolin gradually enter] She wasn't cruel every single day. That's what makes this hard to explain. Some mornings pancakes filled the stove; Some nights I wished she'd let me go. She knew the songs that made me laugh, Kept every picture from my class. She'd kiss my forehead when I burned, Then use my weakest words when hurt. She'd beg forgiveness Sunday night, By Monday we'd restart the fight. "I only scream because I care." "You make me crazy standing there." I learned that love could hold you tight And leave you frightened every night. That someone could be home to you And still be somewhere you can't go to. [Pre-Chorus — appears only once; melody rises] I didn't leave because love died. I left because it stayed alive Long after every decent part Had learned to hurt inside my heart. [Instrumental — acoustic guitar and mandolin interlock over an uneven bass pulse] [Verse 3 — short, almost whispered] Her birthday came. I bought a card. Wrote, "Love you, Mom." Then stopped. I couldn't sign my name below. I threw it out. She'll never know. [Bridge — longest melodic section; instruments gradually build] Sometimes I picture that old street, Her porch light burning through the trees. I see her sitting in that chair, Still leaving room like I'll be there. I wonder if her hair went gray, If she still cries on Mother's Day. If every car that slows outside Makes something hopeful cross her eyes. And God, sometimes I want to drive Those three long hours late at night, Pull in the yard, walk through that door, Be somebody's little boy once more. But memory knows what longing hides: The slammed doors and the sleepless nights, The guilt laid heavy at my feet, The way she'd love, then punish me. So I can miss her from afar. I can love who I wish we are. But wanting home won't make it home, And loving her won't make it whole. [Breakdown — low acoustic body percussion; rough restrained vocal] No funeral. No final fight. No hospital. No last goodbye. She's still breathing. So am I. That's why this grief Won't fit just right. Two living people. One severed line. Her heart still hers. This hurt still mine. [Final Chorus — melody from opening returns, lyrics completely changed] Don't tell Mom where I live. God knows I've taken all I can give. Tell her I remember summertime, Her singing badly, hanging clothes outside. Tell her I kept that photograph Where we're both young and she's making me laugh. Tell her whatever helps her forgive— Tell her her son Still loves her. Just don't tell Mom where I live. [Outro — instrumental only; fingerpicked acoustic guitar ends without resolution]