Clarence Clemons and My Sense of Loss

I’m 54 years old, which means I’ve lived long enough to have lost a lot of people who were close to me.

Both of my parents are gone, as are aunts, uncles, cousins, in-laws, and close friends. Each time death took someone from me, I wondered how life could go on without that person in my life. Often I had lost a person who was a physical presence in my life each week, if not each day.

Because I had that close relationship with each person, it’s completely understandable that I would feel a sense of deep loss when one would die.

But why do I feel almost the same sense of loss when someone dies who I never even met?

Clarence Clemons died last night at the age of 69, just one week after suffering a stroke. I never met him. In fact, I was in the same building as Clemons just one time in my life; that’s the closest I came to being physically connected to this man.

But I feel a sense of loss. And I don’t understand why.

The only connection I have with the man is the saxophone accompaniment he played as a member of Bruce Springsteen’s E Street Band. I’ve got most of the Springsteen records, so I can revisit that connection any time I want. I can listen to Clemons’ music any time I want.

But my enjoyment of listening to the music is tempered by the knowledge that there won’t be any new music from Clarence Clemons. It’s tempered by the realization that a certain period of my life, a certain period in the things I enjoy, has ended. In fact, it’s a realization that should really never come as a surprise: I’m getting older, and I don’t like that fact.

Yes, I feel a sense of loss at the death of a musician whose work I enjoyed. But I think my real sense is that I’ve lost something of myself.