On the willows there, we hung up our lyres

"Thou hast me," another echo. It feels as if all the scraps of him have been heaped together in the basket of Claudius' arms and in that basket been reshaped into new loaves and new fishes. He feels like a real thing again, somehow. If Easter is empty of all the peace and joy it should have brought, if there is no nourishment in it for him now, he can still be the nourishment for someone else. For the most important person.