This is where somebody else might've said you don't need the silverware, Clint, all gentle, thinking they were helping. If it had been Frank, he'd have said you don't have the first goddamn clue what I need so how about you shut your fucking mouth.

He almost says it was the piano for me, would've broken Maria's heart if she knew he stopped playing after she died. She'd have been all broken up about it, about music, about how much she loved hearing him play and so did the kids, and he ought to take the piano at least. But he couldn't move the piano by himself, and he didn't have anywhere to put it, so he felt too guilty to even touch the keys the last time he went home.

"Tell you what," he says instead. "Everything you need for work, you put in those duffel bags. Everything else you wanna take for safekeeping... I brought the van. We box it up, stick it in the back, I'll hang onto it."

Until what? Until when? Until she comes back, or until Clint's ready to see all the literal baggage, sort through it, deal with it, decide what to keep for real and what to get rid of.

"We got some time. I'll help you do it. Make a list."