Revive the Archive: Tiffany Hauck’s “Early Morning” (2005)

Revive the Archive is a weekly series that showcases student works from The York Review’s extensive archive. These student works will vary each week of the series, ranging from pieces of writing to pieces of artwork.

This touching poem breaks down a moment in time. A simple moment that could be overlooked in the blink of an eye. But the moment itself is a lifetime of memories. A pure, simple moment of joy that can put life’s meaning into the deepest perspective.

[Image Description: In the foreground, a stout blue coffee mug, releasing steam that rises wavily, sits on an otherwise empty table; in the blurred background are two windows ushering in light whose whiteness contrasts with the surrounding shadows.]

Early Morning
Tiffany Hauck (2005)

The aged woman drinks her coffee,

a religious routine every morning.

Not shaken but stirred, and always hot,

“Just like my men,” she used to joke.

In those early mornings Hungarian spilled from her lips,

Intoxicated by the language with each sip.

As we talked, she would take slow sips,

Always making gestures to the pot for more coffee.

At the age of 84, she still had beautiful lips,

But, day after day I had to wonder is this our last morning?

I would ask her questions about death, she laughed as if a joke,

But I could tell she worried because her face looked hot.

By the time we finished talking, our coffee cold, no longer hot.

Taking sporadic glances at my great grandmother gently sipping

We moved into the sunroom proceeding with our banter and jokes

She would always make sure to put a coaster down under her coffee

In that room she shined like the sun in the morning

Sitting down reapplying her berry-tinted lipstick.

Smoothing the gloss gently over her lips.

The power of the sun could be felt making us hot

Little did I know these were some of our last mornings.

By each breath I could tell she was struggling to sip,

The coaster held her once steaming coffee

Her eyes, gentle, her tone of voice flat, no more time left to joke.

Our favorite thing to do before she passed was tell jokes.

I stayed by her hospital bed resting my trembling hand to her lips,

Our favorite pastime cornered to these four walls, nurses delivered coffee

The only way she liked it, not shaken but stirred and always hot.

I was the only one drinking that day, my grandmother too weak to sip.

My only prayer that night “please God give me one last morning.”

God heard my prayers, he granted my one more morning,

I took advantage of my luck and told her jokes

On her way up I hoped she laughed, as her last sweet breath was a gentle sip.

Fighting back tears of remorse, my face grew hot as,

I took my last swig of bittersweet coffee.

My lips rambling off jokes, in hopes of distracting her, consumed her last hours.

I allow the hotness to burn my lips in assurance that I am still alive after this tragedy.

Every sip of coffee I take trails my thought back to our morning hours together.