Leavening

I listen to the sounds coming from my son's
room. A man's voice, acoustic guitar, words
that match the light rain falling. His door is
closed. He packs his things in anticipation.
I won't knock on the door, won't interrupt
the busyness involved in leaving, won't take
from him these minutes he needs. I need them
too. I am most keenly aware that, one night,
shortly after he's moved on, I may go into his
room and hook up a boom box, try to figure out
who he was listening to, try to reproduce this
night as if it were all that easy to do. He comes
out and tells me what a job it is to unload, let
go of all the things he's held onto for years.
We laugh. I say I understand. And I do.
The tension rises like the leavened dough
in the warm oven, covered there waiting
for my touch. And I will touch and knead
and wet the softness with my own pain
as he packs and nears his time to rise.