At the deepest part of the night, when the world is finally at shalom and everything feels still, there is one sound that refuses to disappear—the snore of my tito.
At first, it was annoying. The kind of sound that makes you roll your eyes and wish for silence. But as time passed, that snore slowly transformed into something else. Something familiar. Something comforting. Something warm.
Whenever I sneak out of my room late at night—usually to eat an extremely late dinner—I hear it echoing softly through the corners of our house. It’s funny, yes, but it also feels grounding. Like a quiet reminder that I am not alone. That I am safe. That I am home.
It makes it okay to sit alone in the kitchen until 3 a.m. The darkness doesn’t feel scary. The silence doesn’t feel heavy. Because somewhere nearby, his snore exists—steady, careless, alive. And with it comes the reassurance that everything is alright.
But on nights when he’s not around, or when my family isn’t home, the house feels different. Too quiet. Too empty. That’s when I turn the TV on—not to watch, but to hear. Because sometimes silence is more deafening than noise. And a familiar sound, whether it’s a snore or background TV chatter, can feel like comfort pretending to be chaos.
It’s funny how the things we once found irritating become the very things we miss. Funny how home is not always a place—but a sound.
And for me, home snores.
Shift Happens - SN chronicles 