The Second Helping

Her hand paused over the bowl, a delicate hover,

a silent question in the air, unsaid.

Potatoes, mashed, like clouds, a fluffy cover,

but underneath, a weight inside my head.

'More, dear?' she asked, her voice a practiced mild,

a kindness that still felt a bit too neat.

I saw the glint, a challenge in her smile,

or maybe just the steam, the dinner's heat.

I shook my head, 'No, thank you, I am good.'

The hand withdrew, a small, quiet defeat.

That space between us, always understood,

like a carefully placed, but empty, seat.