Tonight the moon floats under the surface of the sky, thin clouds forming a film over it, suddenly reminding me of the plump white mozzarella I bought at lunchtime, floating in it's own plastic pot.
I bought it from an Italian English cafe and carried it with me for half the day in a thin plastic bag, with a fennel salami and six little glass bottles of pear juice.
And all day, I kept feeling happy and wondering why, and then remembering my treasures, small but significant gifts, and imagining home; a pasta with fresh tomatoes, peppery rocket and soft mozarella just melting; the small wooden board with circles of sausage sliced; my husband's smile, touching my cheek, lightly like a pear juice kiss.
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