When you come to meet my family in the barrio, you already have the envelopes and papers in your pocket. You let us sit you at the head of the table beneath the wood carving of the Last Supper and serve you an evening meal. We listen to you marvel at the taste of spicy chicken soup laced with tamarind. We do not tell you that the chicken is our last meat, that the portion you take is more than enough to feed my three youngest sisters. Instead, we wait for you to agree; then we will know the family will eat chicken or maybe even pork for many months to come. I do not eat that night while I sit next to you. I spoon my soup onto my little brother's plate, a last farewell to our only boy. I hope you will let me send money to him once we have left. For school, I will tell you, my smile as soft as morning mist, perhaps a little for new clothes. I try not to wonder how often I will have to beg this way. You sit on the porch late into the night, sipping Black Label and sharing cigarettes with my father. My mother sits in the kitchen trying not to listen to you struggle through our language. My father is patient and he speaks your language slowly, deliberately, haltingly, so you will never suspect he knows more than you thought he should. I lay safe within folds of mosquito netting when you give my father the papers and a thin envelope. He does not keep the papers, instead glances at them to be sure they look in order. The envelope looks so tiny in his hand and he is unsure, uncertain that this is the right thing to do. He looks into your hazy blue eyes and rubs a hand through his thin, grey hair. Then he folds the envelope in half and slips it into his back pocket. There is not much more I can do for my family. I am too small, too smart, too old for these barrio boys. We both know it is better to find a life elsewhere. In the morning we walk to the church together and I hold your dry white hand as we say our vows. You press cool, rough lips to mine and it is done. There is no question what you want from me, yet you will have to wait until you take me to your country. There is only time to kiss my mother and squeeze my father's hand before we must leave to board our plane. We sisters try not to cry and my mother begs us to stay, but it is just for show. There is nothing for you here except banana plantations and open pit mines. I take one last look at the white washed church then begin to fold myself up. My knees to my mouth, my polio back turned sideways, my too large eyes wrapped in swaths of my black hair. You fold my crooked arms haphazardly to fit into a small envelope you have brought, then slip me into your jacket next to your passport and wallet. With a satisfied smile, you pat your pocket, your newest acquisition safe against your heart. First featured online in the April issue of Babaylan Speaks, Meritage Press (2005).