My friend Charles told me that June Records would be closing a few hours before the news was made public on the store’s website. June’s building was sold, and the new landlord was terminating the shop’s lease at the end of July. Ever since I spotted the sale sign in late April, I’d had a sinking feeling that this was where things were headed, but the shock of hearing that it was finally coming to pass was immediately replaced by a distinct feeling of sadness.

“Damn it,” I told Charles. “That just sucks.”

June Records wasn’t the oldest record store in Toronto, the largest or its best known. It was a small place, and opened only in 2012. But it meant the world to me for several reasons: it was a block from my house; the selection was eclectic and sweeping; the prices were fair; and its staff members were the kind of knowledgeable, highly opinionated music geeks that possessed a soulful recognition engine more powerful than any algorithm.

Still, it was just a store that sold pieces of melted plastic, which you could theoretically purchase at other record stores or online, often for less money. Why did hearing that June Records was closing make me genuinely sad? Why do we shed tears over businesses that shut their doors, when we know that the nature of businesses is ephemeral?

I’ll be the first to admit that I hold a stubborn nostalgic streak, and have spent a good part of my career fixating on these emotions. My first book was about the disappearing institution of the Jewish delicatessen, which I saw fading to extinction before my eyes. But as I traveled around the world, visiting more than 200 Jewish delis, I frequently encountered a visceral sense of loss from people who remembered the beloved delis in their past. The wounds for these onion roll seekers and pastrami lovers never fully healed. It was as though Ratner’s on the Lower East Side or Grabstein’s in Brooklyn had closed last week, rather than decades ago. The hurt was ongoing.