Focaccia Bread

I sit on my beach towel facing the ocean.
I have just gotten out of the water, my hair is sopping wet.
The blistering Italian sun warms my skin.
I am four years old.

It is time for lunch.
I notice that I am famished.
The hours of swimming have awakened my appetite.
My mother brings over a fresh piece of focaccia bread.
It is enormous in my little hands, covered in sand.

I take a bite and then another,
It has the impeccable balance of olive oil, tomatoes and capers.
I savour every delicious piece as if it were my last,
Its taste tantalizes my palate,
Its aroma blissfully warms my body,
I bury my toes in the sand.
I think that nothing can be quite so perfect, as this moment, with my focaccia bread in hand.