This is the fourth time Sig and I have spent a good part of the month of February in Port Aransas. It’s sunny but cold and windy as we drive the island away from Corpus Christie.
Without comment we pass Mustang Island State Park and the Stripes convenience store that, in fact, does sell wine. Then past A Mano, the best place around for quality Mexican imports — right across the street from another import place whose pots will likely chip before you get them home.
After lunch we reach the first intersection and turn right, caddy-corner from the row of giant pastel sea horses. We turn into the drive-way of the Sea Shell and stop at the office.
It takes a little while to unload the truck but not nearly as long as before.
The place shows a little wear. The legs to the ottoman are in the drawer, there’s a deep scratch on the table and a rip on the arm of the couch. The rusty skillet has disappeared. After we unpack and rearrange the furniture, we open a bottle of wine.
It is as if we had Never left. It is as if yesterday we had dinner at the Mexican place and the day before we went to the CVS. It is like I had already gone to IGA and knew their movie selection sucks and their lettuce is wilted but their hamburger is 90% lean. It is just a little bit stunning that neither of us could think of anything significant about the last year.
Sig thinks it is because we are getting old and memory compresses everything. His second theory revolves around the intensity of familiarity and I didn’t really follow it. Personally, I think we are in a re-make of Groundhog Day.
This is the fourth time…