This is what I imagine: that the Supreme Being is the kind of friend who bargains with you to liven up boring family reunions.
I will give you a peso for every air-kiss your mother has to command you into giving an old lady stranger, who professes to remembering your sweet rosy baby self running naked in the garden in the old Baguio house, whose face bleeds into all the other faces in the cloud of powder and hairspray at the mahjong table.
Five for every tita who prods the soft spots above your hipbones with her talons, squeezes your upper arm, shakes her head, blesses you with a lipsticked smile of mercy.
Ten for every time someone asks why you don’t have a boyfriend yet.
Twenty for, when you do have a boyfriend, for every inquiry about the wedding, every unsolicited offer to be your decorator, coordinator, makeup artist, stylist, godmother.
Fifty, when you marry, for every Got anything baking in the oven that is really a How well do the two of you make love don’t be shy now tell us everything we need to remember what it is like.
One hundred for every meal you politely decline to eat at the Lord’s table, even if lola’s friends have brought in a lechon and taken the good silver out of the tabernacle.
Five hundred for every time the spirit moves in you, makes you foolish and brave enough to answer all questions taklesa or otherwise with Bullshit–accept your state of sinfulness, hija, that suplada face will send you straight to hell.
I enjoin you, in the spirit of friendship, to keep these debts on record. To demand the cumulative sum of what you are owed, at the end of days, with interest.
Day 7: Write a poem about money.