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My first memory of my oldest brother is from the morning he left to join
the Air Force. Don Reed was nineteen, I was three.
The memory is like a five-second home-movie fragment that plays in my
head. It’s 1953. We’ve driven to Oklahoma City, where he will report for
duty.
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 and making
sure they have access to affordable housing and healthcare.
No matter how you honor Memorial Day, I hope you have a meaningful day.
Elizabeth
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