I cried like a child when Jack Layton died.

And we all should have. Jack is the metaphor Canada needed, and still needs. His words, more than sixty years of them to be sure, will live on in us and in his work: to this day I am amazed at how far Toronto and Canada have moved forward in a pursuit towards gay rights, women's rights, and rights to healthcare, fair trial and other now-conventional luxuries enjoyed by many who now mourn Jack and his legacy.

But is his legacy really over? Many, including the general youth population, seem to disagree- in fact the aim is to challenge everything that is, in order to improve to what will be. The future seems our gaze fixed; his legacy is our motivation towards a better and more generous tomorrow.

Stephen Lewis' eulogy moved me, deeply and emotionally. After I stopped crying, I realized that the reason why we mourn Jack is because he was the person we wanted to be, but never had the 'gusto' to become. Jack was the 'us' we should have been, and now should become. The generous, kind, honest man who everyone had dreamed to be our next PM.

We mourn not just Jack, a life well lived, but the entire idea of democracy and the ability to change Canada in favour of its people. We mourn the loss of a brother, a friend, an MP, a leader. He wore many hats, but his mustache and rise to fame were all because of his drive and his ability to be generous with his heart. Jack put his heart into everything he did, and not simply inspired by Lewis' eulogy, but moved--I too wish I could be 'a little more like Jack'.

Jack's passing should awake the slow rumbles of revolution in those who truly believe-- in the generosity of Canadians to help eachother and to care for our fellow human beings, not simply for corporations or for the money.

There's nothing like a postmortem letter and a well written eulogy to change the world.

And we will

How

How did I know I had to let go of you?

It was the same exact moment you cried to me, on the telephone, about how much you hated your life and wanted to end it.

It was that night I never picked up my phone

and you turned out alright. She's still with you.

And I look back, through all our photographs, and you were never, ever sober.

Places and faces changed, but you were always drunk. The pictures are probably the only memories you have now, and they best be something.

I wonder what kind of memory I left for you, the same kind of thing that you keep asking me over and over again. You keep trying, and it's so beautiful and so painful.

I let go of you, but you keep coming back. And back, and back.

Quit hurting her, and quit hurting me. Quit hurting yourself. How?

Just love.