IF NOT FOR YOU {George Harrison}

Chapter 9

Dash

"Happy birthday, Delilah Anne Sheila Harriet Jones-Kircherr!"

I felt the weight of both Astrid and Stu on top of me as they jumped on my bed (Astrid had traded our couch for a bed and we now shared a bedroom) with a scream. I had been peacefully sleeping when the sound of "HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DASH!" came from all around.

I laughed as Stu pulled Astrid off of me and held her on his lap so I could sit up.

"Bloody monkeys, that today?"

I glanced at the German calendar. Sure enough, in bright red ink, Darling Dash's 18th birthday! Was scribbled over June 29th.

I was finally 18. That meant that I was legally allowed to be in this country. And legally allowed to drink hard liquor.

Astrid squealed from Stu's lap and she jumped up. "We made you breakfast!"

I smelled the familiar scent of fried eggs and tomatoes and I knew Astrid had made me a little bit of home.

The two got off my bed and left the room, Stu poking his head back through the door, saying, "Come 'ead, it'll be cold!"

As he turned and left, I glanced at the calendar again, taking a deep breath.

June 29th.

It had already been a year. He'd promised me he wouldn't on my birthday. But there are some promises you can't keep.

Remembering him, I pulled a sweater that I had stolen from one of my brother Larry's trunks over my head. It still smelled like him. Like aftershave, mint, and our mums goat milk soap. I breathed in the scent of my brother, wishing he were here to enjoy the day with me.

He would've loved Germany. The sights, the sounds, the women, the drinks. Even the boys. John was so much like him, I knew they could have been good friends.

If only things had been different.

Before my emotions could rush out and spoil a good day, I went out into the apartment.

The two love birds had in fact made me a traditional English breakfast, a hot cup of tea, and an iced tea cake.

"Ye can't eat tea cakes for breakfast, Atti."

Astrid grinned at me. Her smile was very subtle but it made you feel like sunshine when you saw it.

"You do on your birthday!"

After we devoured the food and talked for a few hours, Astrid brought out a basket that had a few letters in it and a package. I took a deep breath.

I knew who had written one of those letters.

"From your parents, " she handed me the parcel and two of the letters. I took them, and she held the last letter, an obvious change in the mood. "This one is from Lawrence." She placed the pale yellow envelope on the table next to me. Larry's crooked, spider like hand writing spelled out Dashie across the front.

My throat constricted with emotion and I swallowed, trying to push it down. He wouldn't want today to be sad.

I put the other things on top of his letter and gave Astrid a quick smile.

"Thank you, love. Shall we go?"

We had planned a few days before to go dancing with the band after a walk and picnic at the park.

Astrid could tell I was trying not to cry.

"Shucks, I've such a mess to clean up. And Stu'd better head straight to practice. Why don't ye start on yer stroll and we'll meet you at the park for our picnic?"

I nodded hastily, pulling on my shoes.

I grabbed the package and letters and stuffed them into my pocket.

Stu and Astrid gave me a quick kiss on the cheek and waved at me as I hurriedly paced out the front door.

As soon as I was outside the building, the tears started.

Did he really write me a letter for my next 10 birthdays?

I remembered Larry telling me that I wouldn't be able to survive without his incredible poetry, so he would write me a poem for every birthday for 10 years. I remembered that joke losing its humor once he started going downhill. I remembered his weak smile as he told me not to cry for him when I read the letters, because, Dash, your birthday should never be sad.

By the time I reached the park, I was crying too hard to walk. I sat at a nearby bench, and just let myself sob.

A year ago today, on June 29th, my 17th birthday, my brother Larry had died due to cancer.

I tried not to think of him very often.

Just the thought of his smile or his laugh made me cry. Remembering Larry's last breath always made me want to leave this earth and join him in the heavens.

It broke my heart to think of him, and that made it even worse.

Larry had been 22 when he'd died. He'd been sick with the cancer for most of his life, and had been in and out of hospitals since I could remember. I barely remember him at home with our parents and I.

While he had always been very sick and weak, Larry was one of the most adventurous people I'd known. When he wasn't in the hospital, he would spend every moment outside. He studied the stars, claiming that the secrets of the universe lay there, dormant. He once told me that he'd seen a shooting star and that his wish was that I would marry someone who appreciated the stars as much as he did. I thought he was an idiot.

My life had been a complete accident. My parents hadn't wanted another baby after Larry got so sick.But when I came, I wasn't their baby: I was Larry's. He would take me everywhere with him, a little five year old boy pushing his baby sister around in a pram. He would tell me stories and pick me flowers. When I learned to walk, he was the one who picked me up when I fell. He'd been the one who tended to my first scraped knee, the one who'd washed my tears away when I'd had my heart broken by a stupid boy, the one who'd given me a kiss on the hand before he'd died.

Larry had been my everything before he died, and I was the same to him. I missed him so much. I missed his jokes and his horrible poetry. I missed the way he loved the stars. I missed his huge light brown eyes that always had a twinkle to them.

And most of all, I missed that laugh.