Whenever there’s a rally on Parliament Hill, the people behind it are usually ecstatic when a journalist shows up. It means they can get their message out, and give voice to their cause. It means the rally, or demonstration—whatever anyone calls it—can live forever.

But today, there were no organizers. And there was no cause, in the traditional sense. But journalists were on the front lawn of Parliament Hill all the same, cameras and mics pointed at those gathered.

Jack Layton’s death was news. And when a group of mourners, thanks to a single tweet, gathered around the eternal flame as the clock struck noon, they provided journalists a compelling visual—just the kind of stirring images that are perfect background for the supper hour news.

Because there were no organizers or speakers, only mourners, no one took centre stage. The closest thing to a spokesman was CTV’s Graham Richardson. He stood just a few feet from the flame, surrounded by onlookers, his voice echoing through the crowd. Behind Richardson, a gaggle of photographers surrounded the flame, each presumably looking for the shot that might grace the cover of tomorrow morning’s edition. Reporters roamed the crowd, looking for people who might provide a quote or two—perhaps an anecdote, or a fond memory.

I found myself walking around much the same way, looking for familiar faces who might offer a few words. I said hello, in passing, to an old acquaintance who now works for the NDP. The MP he works for was being interviewed a few feet away. My acquaintance, not known in the past for being all that sombre, was exactly that. It was jarring.

A few minutes later, I crossed paths with another old acquaintance. We exchanged pleasantries, and eventually I asked him if he would speak for a couple of minutes about Layton. He said he didn’t want to be named in any story, and then said he couldn’t offer much, anyway. But he spoke briefly about a few fun times he had sharing nachos with Layton at Brixton’s—a well-known NDP haunt. Then his eyes welled up.

After that, it wasn’t so easy to ask more people for comment. I felt as if I shouldn’t be asking these questions, even if they’re perfectly legitimate.

Meanwhile, journalists were everywhere, asking strangers all around to talk about Layton’s death, just as I was doing. At one point, an Ottawa Citizen reporter introduced herself to me, and was about to ask if I could chat with her. Before she could finish, I interrupted her and introduced myself. Imagine that, I thought: journalists are accidentally interviewing journalists. That’s just how many of us were up there, surrounding the mourners.

As the gathering thinned out, I wondered if people felt better for having made their way to the flame, despite all the cameras and questions that dogged them. The answer came from another friend, the last one of my army of unnamed sources. She did feel better, she told me, because she didn’t want to be alone today. She knew she would find comfort among friends, and that they would be there. No mention of the hordes of journalists. They didn’t matter. It’s like we weren’t even there.