Counting Crows, "A Long December"

1996, and it is indeed December. I live in a brick house whose leaky basement now resembles a skating rink. I put the paper to bed and skid a matter of blocks to Doris'. Later, drunk, I drive home and nearly miss the turn. At home I find the wind has ripped my garage door from the house. It hangs by a bolt. I park on the street and walk, cursing and slipping, through the snow, up the stairs, to the door.