Einstein sits and thinks under the dark trees surrounding a white cottage — where no war came, even during the years when young men flooded out from this campus, cold from tap like the beer they’d drunk at the Tiger- town Inn just before their first induction. He stirs, but no amount of induction can help him explain how these knotty trees survived pen-knives, like claws of a tiger, incising the names of loves pre-war. A stick falls to the ground — a muffled tap returns his thoughts from trees to absent men. The ones who carved their names were…
The Science Creative Quarterly
By jonathancohen
Jonathan Cohen is a writer and editor living in Irvine, California, primarily working in creative non-fiction and memoir. He is a frequent contributor to the Santa Monica Review.
THE GALLON CLUB
Today, when I gave blood, the petite, Hispanic technician informed me that I was now a member of the Gallon Club. She explained that I had made eight visits to the blood center over the years, and, having given eight pints, was now in the ranks. Opening a white file cabinet, she removed a gaudy gold plastic pin in the shape of a drop of blood. It was emblazoned with a red cross on a white field, and in nearly invisible writing below the insignia, it said GALLON (1) DONOR. I graciously accepted the honor. Now, however, I was curious…
EINSTEIN AT PRINCETON
Einstein sits and thinks under the dark trees surrounding a white cottage — where no war came, even during the years when young men flooded out from this campus, cold from tap like the beer they’d drunk at the Tiger- town Inn just before their first induction. He stirs, but no amount of induction can help him explain how these knotty trees survived pen-knives, like claws of a tiger, incising the names of loves pre-war. A stick falls to the ground — a muffled tap returns his thoughts from trees to absent men. The ones who carved their names were…