Daddy's LIttle Girl

I was thinking of my dad today when a song came on the radio, one I hadn’t heard in years. The moment the melody began, I felt it wash over me like a wave I wasn’t prepared for. “You’re the end of the rainbow, my pot of gold…”

That was his song for me. Not just any tune, but our song—the one he always sang to me, the one that wrapped me in his love when words alone weren’t enough. As soon as I heard it, tears began to fall before I could even blink them back. And almost instinctively, I found myself humming along, shaky at first, then stronger, as though singing it was my way of touching him again across the years and the silence.

I can still picture him singing it when I was little. His voice wasn’t perfect, but it didn’t need to be. To me, it was the sound of safety, of belonging. I would sit close, sometimes on his lap, sometimes leaning against him, and when he sang “You’re my bright and shining star,” I believed it with my whole heart. Because in his eyes, I really was. He didn’t just say I mattered—he lived it.

The lyrics are simple, sweet, almost childlike. “You’re the spirit of Christmas, my star on the tree. You’re the Easter Bunny to Mommy and me…” At the time, those words made me giggle, made me feel seen in all the small and magical ways that only a little girl can. But now, as an adult, those words mean something deeper. They remind me of a man who knew how to love with tenderness, who found a way to make his daughter feel treasured in a world that sometimes forgets how to value such things.

When I think about him now, I remember more than just the song. I remember his steady presence in our small Wisconsin town, where everyone knew him and, by extension, us kids. I remember how his laugh could fill a room, how his hands were strong from work but gentle when he held mine. I remember that he wasn’t just my dad—he was my anchor, my protector, the quiet proof that love can be both fierce and soft at the same time.

So when that song came on today, it wasn’t just a reminder of the past. It was a reminder that love doesn’t die with the body. It lingers. It echoes. It lives on in the melodies we can’t forget, in the tears we cry when memory sneaks up on us, in the way our hearts still swell when we whisper the words back to ourselves.

Yes, I cried today. I cried because I miss him, because I wish I could hear him sing it to me just one more time. But I also smiled through those tears. Because for a moment, I could almost hear him again. I could feel the warmth of his love wrapping around me, as strong now as it was when I was little.

And I realized something: even though years have passed, even though life has changed, I’ll always be his little girl. Always his “precious gem,” always his “bright and shining star.” That truth doesn’t fade. It lives in me. It sings through me.

So as the song ended and the quiet returned, I whispered the words back into the silence: I’ll always be Daddy’s little girl. And somehow, I know he heard me.