By Kayla Guevara
It is September 23, 1972.
My family members rustle around the house, the neighborhood dogs are making their presence known, and the rhythmic static of the radio plays its tune. I greet the breeze knocking against my window, the sun peeking through the dancing linen curtains, and the thin layer of sweat on my forehead. I say hello to the aroma of my parents’ freshly brewed barako coffee and the all-too-familiar scent of our favorite snack[1] , turon. It is just another day in September, but it was a day like no other.
The Polyphony 