As a child, I spent a lot of time lying on the carpet in front of my parents’ wall of records, just listening. They had everything: Neil Young, The Beatles and, of course, Leonard Cohen. Cohen kind of freaked me out — the deep voice coupled with the dark album were both traumatizing and tantalizing. He’s unlike any singer I’ve experienced since.

When a musician dies, there is an emotional response. It’s like losing a friend you grew up with. Listening to their albums might bring back a particular moment in time, or just how you felt when you first heard it. The loss isn’t just of the person, but the result of their creations. Think about it: Leonard Cohen will never write another song.

Late musicians also leave behind a musical legacy that will be performed and experienced after their death. But the truly great ones leave behind a body of work that will continue to be relevant, and continue to be played.

I will always listen to “Hallelujah” and think of Cohen. So many artists have covered it successfully: Jeff Buckley, who reigns as the king of covers, along with Keaton Henson, John Cale, Bob Dylan, Willie Nelson and even Kate McKinnon on “Saturday Night Live.” Some would cover it unsuccessfully — a cappella group Pentatonix and artist Kate Voegele never learned the dangers of over-singing when covering this classic. Though Cohen probably got tired of everyone using his legacy to kill off characters in TV shows, I’ll still listen to it and cry.

Cohen was also a poet who wrote about life and faith and love. It was his dissatisfaction with his literary career that led him to move to the United States and become a singer; but he still published novels and books of poetry throughout his career as a musician. I like that he did both.

He never did stop grappling with death and his last album, “You Want it Darker.” Much like Johnny Cash’s final album, it was a struggle with death. Cohen wrote a letter to friend and muse Marianne Ihlen two days before her death, stating, “Well Marianne, it’s come to this time when we are really so old and our bodies are falling apart and I think I will follow you very soon. Know that I am so close behind you that if you stretch out your hand, I think you can reach mine.” The album is almost like a eulogy, a fantastic farewell with Cohen’s deep voice narrating the whole thing.

This year, he retracted his previous statements about death, stating instead that he wanted to live until he was 120. I wish he had. I feel the same for Prince, for Cash, for every musician I listened to growing up, in my heart they live on forever — in my parent’s records, in every cheesy character scene to the soundtrack of “Hallelujah,” and through his poetry. Cohen may be gone, but his music is still here. It’s sad, but sort of beautiful, I believe.