Jesus Of The Studio

Jesus lives behind glass in a frame. Patiently, he stands on a table in the corner of my studio. As I work, he watches serenely while His Sacred Heart burns it's eternal flame.
Legend has it that Jesus once presided over the bedroom of my husband's Great-Aunt and Uncle; He watched impassively as Great-Aunt Kathleen passed into the Great Hereafter of brain cancer. He was then shunted from place to place, spending most of his time under the beds of various relatives like a genie in a bottle, no longer needed when requested wishes failed to materialize. Was he lonely all those years, staring meekly into the dark while his keepers turned in their sleep above him?
Jesus has seen better days. Dusty and disproportionately large silk flowers sprout on either side of his red and gold robes, yellowed cardboard keeps him firmly imprisoned in his little coffin. He has long since wandered out of fashion; I imagine him in that room in my mind, that tiny parlour with doilies and a ticking clock. A room rarely entered, except for special occasions when one wears white gloves while sipping tea from china cups.
There is dust in this room, but it is good, clean, dignified dust. Dust which lightly films the plastic furniture covers, and which serves to signify just how rare and special one's visit would be.
I was not raised Catholic, nor am I a practicing Christian. Yet Jesus and His Sacred Heart seem content to live in my Holy Place, my "room-of-one's-own". At times, I pause and look up; His pale blue eyes seem be watching me. His gentle, benign tackiness lends a shabby grace to my room, my Saviour of spattered paint and Redeemer of torn fabrics. Blessed is the working mind, the busy hands, the eternal burning heart.