This morning, I learned from I Will Dare that Dolores O’Riordan, the voice of the band the Cranberries, has died.

I had heard the Cranberries here and there, and then I saw them open for The The in 1993. (September 19, 1993, according to the Cranberries website) I remember being blown away by Dolores O’Riordan’s piercing, ethereal voice, and struck by the voice’s vessel, just a year older than I was, on the Paramount Theater stage.

When my on-again-off-again then-love of my life came home from college for Christmas break, I told him about the show. I must have told him about it before; we talked on the phone all the time, despite the then-outrageous cost of long distance. (Can you imagine paying 23 cents a minute now to talk to your long-distance love? FaceTime, dude.) I knew he would love them, and he did. I remember talking about them in the car, and that talk that was, or was part of, the reason he came inside instead of dropping me off like he knew he should, and then inside we had tearful sex and pre-emptively missed each other horribly and a few weeks later things unraveled completely, long distance, and I never saw him again. Yeah. Talk about lingering.

Later, I got tired of the Cranberries — they were always on KBCO, always the same couple of songs — just like I got tired of the drama of that old relationship with that high maintenance, “what I’m just a dude minding my own business” boy, just like I got tired of the drama of my 21-year-old self.

And I’m tired of that sinking feeling of saying goodbye to another artist too young, feeling the dread of the “family asks for privacy” news article that tells me something terrible happened, feeling the good luck of living with emotional issues and making it through.

Rest in peace, Dolores.