By Allyson Robinson
The first time I saw my father cry was over a list of names.
It was the Fourth of July 1993, the summer before my senior year at West Point, and we'd come to Washington, D.C., so that I could catch a plane. I'd volunteered to spend the summer leading a platoon of the 506th Parachute Infantry Regiment, patrolling the Korean DMZ; my dad, an Army command sergeant major, had volunteered to drive me to the airport and see me off.
My flight was scheduled to depart well before dawn (or at "o-dark-thirty," as Dad put it), so we drove down from our home in Pennsylvania the afternoon before to spend the night. We made good time, and as we crossed the Potomac we realized that there was just enough daylight left to visit one of the monuments on the National Mall before checking into our hotel. We both knew which one we wanted to see.
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