My first memory of my oldest brother, Don Reed, is like a five-second home-movie fragment that plays in my head.

It’s 1953. He’s nineteen; I’m three. We’ve driven to Oklahoma City, where he will report for duty to the Air Force.

My mother and I are standing close together on a sidewalk, her full cotton skirt blowing around me. She’s crying. He’s halfway up some steps when he turns. Squinting in the blisteringly bright Oklahoma sun, he waves and gives us a quick wink. Then the memory is over.

Six days a week, my mother rushed to the mailbox to see if there was a letter from Don Reed — or later on, from my brother John or my brother David, after each of them went off to the military.

When a letter came from one of the boys, the day was extra-sunny. She would read it and re-read it and call my aunts or my grandmother to read it again over the phone.

My brothers all made it home safely, and for that, I’m eternally grateful.

Growing up with brothers in the military gave Memorial Day a special meaning: Understanding what others have lost and honoring even more the sacrifice of those who died in service to our country and those who love them. We owe them a debt that can never be repaid.

In Washington, I’ll keep pushing our government to make decisions in the best interest of our service members, their families, and our national security. To take care of our veterans when they come home. To say no to forever wars.

No matter how you honor Memorial Day, I hope you have a meaningful day.

Elizabeth





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