Here are some things I know.

I know have a home. It’s a little home, framed with and bounded by four walls. Those four walls are draftier than I’d like, especially as the New England days get shorter. But they’re solid, those walls. I’m glad to have them. Especially today.

I know She is here. She took care of me today, held me together until I got my feet back under me. I don’t know that they’ll stay under me — I doubt they will — but we’ll see. I also don’t know what I did to deserve her, but I’m more grateful than I can say.

I have two little cats. They’re sweethearts, and seem to just know when someone needs them. They’re quick to cuddle, or to bring over their favorite toy. I know I’ve needed them a lot today. They seem to know, too.

I know I have friends. They’re the kindest, fiercest, sharpest people I’ve ever met. I went for a walk with one of them tonight; I spoke to another on the phone when I was walking home. Nothing was fixed, mind, but both of them helped me more than they probably know.

I know I have my fear, my despair, my anger, my dread, my heartbreak, and my grief. But I also have my love. I will say I’m not feeling much hope right now — but maybe it’ll come back.

I know I’m still here.

What’s more, I know you’re here, too. Whatever happens next, we’ll find our way together.

And I know that counts for something.