By Andrew Zubiri

On my way on a Monday to the shuttle stop, the streets sound like a Sunday morning. Walking across the pedestrian stripes feels less threatening. On the sidewalk, I notice that my once long shadow has shrunk, playing peek-a-boo in and out of the studded shade on the ground. Trees puff their pollen. Are you following us on TikTok? The Jumbotron glares from the edge of the sports field facing the dormitories, asking no one in particular. The bus genuflects meekly and lets out a sigh of relief as the lone passenger gets onboard. The streetcar’s see-through belly slinks slightly slower. Today, its usual burdened whine is a happy hum. I’ve forgotten this treasure, the great urban emptying out, and rediscover it like a folded dollar bill in my jacket’s inside pocket. The revolving door of my building seems to resist my push, while the security almost ignores me as he waves me in. The bullpen, still dark, suddenly awakes. The hollowed-out hallways will remain so for the rest of the day, and the next weeks. But a final swarm will descend one weekend. From the bleachers, parents will watch hats fly on the field. A series of parties commence that I almost tolerate. A last hurrah followed by a fallow. A sustained rest from the cacophony. Hushed months of this city's siesta.

Andrew Zubiri is a Filipino writer whose essays have appeared in AGNI, Consequence, Atticus Review, and are forthcoming in Ninth Letter, World Literature Today, and The Threepenny Review. His writing explores identity and the tension between home and diaspora. A former global development professional, he now works in educational technology and lives in Boston.