Most of those who are close to me are healthy.

The ones who got it — or that we think got it because tests only are available to the near dead and the almost famous — had a mild case and have recovered or are recovering.

Many others can’t say the same and are grieving loved ones.

I’m grieving the ones I know only through their music, but the loss still hurts.

The news last week that singer-songwriter John Prine was diagnosed with COVID-19 hit me hard.

I was encouraged after talking with Jerry Douglas on Monday for the story in this section. The Leavittsburg native is friends with John and his wife, Fiona, and had heard John was getting better.

If he was getting better, it was short-lived. Prine’s death was announced Tuesday evening.

I started listening to Prine when I was a kid, when most of my musical tastes still were shaped by the top 40. I saw Prine perform one of those concert series that PBS carried in the ’70s, maybe “Soundstage” or “In Concert.” I thought “Dear Abby” was the funniest thing I’d ever heard, and that silly song served as the gateway to tales of addiction (“Sam Stone”), loneliness (“Hello in There”) and anti-war sentiment (“Your Flag Decal Won’t Get You into Heaven Anymore”).

Prine was a master short-story writer whose tales had verses and a chorus. He could pen a song as heart-wrenching and evocative as “Angel from Montgomery” and then toss off a whimsical gem like “Fish and Whistle” or “It’s a Big Ol’ Goofy World,” where it feels like the lyrics are dancing atop the melody.

He was one of the first musicians to abandon the music business, creating a record label (Oh Boy Records) to release his music and albums by some of his friends.

A new generation of songwriters, like Jason Isbell, point to Prine as a seminal influence, and in recent years has gotten some of the mainstream attention and acclaim that eluded him for much of his career. He even made the nominees list for the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame a couple years ago. He didn’t get in, but he deserves to be there.

I saw him live a couple times but not nearly enough. I have to settle for the vinyl I’ve had since the ’70s and the CDs of his later material. And those who aren’t familiar with Prine’s music should familiarize themselves with one of the greatest songwriters of my lifetime.

In some ways, the death of another master songwriter, Adam Schlesinger, hurt more, or at least in a different way.

With his age (73), his health (a two-time cancer survivor) and his history (longtime smoker), Prine was a walking collection of contributing factors that make this virus deadly.

Schlesinger was younger (52) than I am, in better shape and, while not a household name, certainly able to afford the best in health care.

Prine’s death made me sad; Schlesinger’s made me scared.

Schlesinger also was a songwriting genius, a man whose talent recalls the great songwriters of the Brill Building era. He could dabble in different styles, different genres and make them his own.

The band Fountains of Wayne was the best showcase for his talents, but his work on “Crazy Ex-Girlfriend” and his title track for the movie “That Thing You Do” also are examples of his craftsmanship.

On March 26, when the sun was out, the temps were in the 60s and we should have been enjoyed the Indians’ opening day in Cleveland, my younger daughter and I decided to break self-quarantine and go for a drive (we were still social distancing, just in motion).

She grabbed Fountains of Wayne’s first album to listen to, and we rolled down the windows and belted out “Radiation Vibe” and other favorites with the sun on our faces and the wind in our hair.

This was a few days before his illness became public, and it’s now a cherished memory of the last time I could listen to FOW without it being tinged with the thought of Schlesinger dying far too young.

Andy Gray is the entertainment editor for Ticket. Write to him at agray@ tribtoday.com.