Out of the North

I stand in the dark waiting for the dog to finish his business and look to the stars to see if any are winking at me tonight. No. Only clouds. A harsh wind whips my face and takes me by surprise. Where did that come from? I wasn't expecting it. It drives through my coat and chills me. It's gusty. Maybe 18-20 miles an hour. I shiver in the shadow of the tall pine tree and realize the wind is a metaphor for the storm brewing with my alcoholic friend in the past twenty four hours. Like a bitter wind this latest chaos struck when I least expected it and settled into my bones, making it hard to breathe. The ripples from this storm are only beginning to spread across this sea of insanity. The wind is bitter, and it's not done blowing yet. Is this what they mean by Winter of Discontent? How long will this one blow and what kind of damage will it leave in its wake? I pull my coat tighter around my chest and head for the door...for shelter.