I was at the bank today, waiting in line to complete a simple transaction. As I stood there lost in my thoughts, the song playing softly on the radio drifted into my mind: “…my left stroke just went viral…” In an instant, my thoughts went straight to Brandon. The first few seconds were heavy with loss, but then I chose to focus on the smile. Brandon had loved Kendrick Lamar—he would dance, repeat the lyrics, and throw himself into the music with complete intensity. I found myself quietly singing along, tapping my feet, snapping my fingers. The young lady behind the counter caught on and smiled back.
When she finished helping me, she said, “I want to thank you for your energy and your smile today. I wasn’t feeling very happy, and then you came in and lifted my spirits. I hope you are blessed this year.” Tears welled up in my eyes, not because of me, but because it wasn’t truly me at all—it was a reflection of my beautiful son spilling out in my movements, my smile, and my laughter. Amid the grief, I felt grateful. In so many ways, I am reminded of how incredible my youngest son was. I want to share a glimpse of who Brandon was.
I was 23 when I found out I was pregnant with Brandon. At that time, I had just finished a military leadership school in Kentucky, and shortly after, my family relocated to Germany. Brandon’s older brother had been a 25-week preemie, so my pregnancy was closely monitored. Around week 30, I began leaking amniotic fluid due to a small hole in my amniotic sac. I was admitted to Landstuhl Regional Medical Center, where I stayed until Brandon’s birth.
May 14th was the day Brandon arrived. He weighed 4 pounds, 5 ounces—big compared to his older brother, who had been just 1 pound, 13 ounces. He spent a short time on a ventilator and had two weeks of antibiotics, but overall, he was a relaxed, easy-going baby. His father chose his name—he had always wanted a boy named Jerico. So Brandon Jerico Cornelius it was. I was a young soldier, working three hours away from the hospital. At the time, new mothers were given six weeks to stay home with their babies, and I felt blessed when a hospital worker told me about a German sitter near my workplace.
I met Heidi and her family, who became our Heidelberg family for life. Because Brandon was immersed in a German-speaking home, he often jumbled his words, frustrating him when I couldn’t understand what he was trying to say. Many times, I had to ask his older brother to translate. But Brandon was pure joy. He always had a smile ready and a heart full of action. If he got in trouble as a child, he might cry briefly, then spring into action to make it right. His apologies were never just words—they were deeds.
Brandon was what everyone would call “all boy.” No mountain was too high to climb, no mud puddle too deep to jump in—often resulting in trips to the ER. He loved adventure, discovery, and mimicking others. When I had to go to New York in March 1996 to care for my terminally ill mother, he would playfully imitate her, putting on her glasses and “playing solitaire.” He was a little clown with a big heart.
Our small three-bedroom Harlem apartment was always full of laughter and chaos. Brandon shared a twin bed with me. At night, he would tap me and say, “Mom, move over, and don’t touch me, okay?” Later, he would demand to sleep with his grandma or uncle, always finding his way back to me. Even as he grew into a teen and young man, he remained my “Momma’s boy,” always returning home to start and end his days with me. As he grew older, he took immense pride in caring for me and the women in our family.
Brandon was outspoken and unfiltered as a child. He would point and say things like, “Wow mom, she is FAT!” I couldn’t scold him—it was the truth. On one rainy subway ride home from Brooklyn, heavily pregnant with his little sister, 2-year-old Brandon broke into Michael Jackson’s “You Are Not Alone,” lifting the spirits of everyone on the train. He could also be hilariously impatient—once, shopping for baby clothes, he announced, “Mommy, I’m leaving,” ran outside, waved for a taxi, and returned defeated, saying, “Mommy, I can’t find my taxi.”
Brandon loved food. He ate voraciously, swallowing even what he didn’t like, often making faces that left everyone laughing. As a teenager, he experimented with all kinds of combinations, fearless in his culinary adventures. But his heart was always full—he loved family and children. When his “bay sister” Frances was born, he was by her side constantly. He was equally devoted to his Godson, Asher, and treated Jonathan’s family as his own. Brandon made time for the people he cared about, investing his love, energy, and presence fully.
He loved animals, too. One of his last Instagram videos was of a raccoon falling through the roof of his workplace. While I panicked, he simply said, “How cute.” He cried over the plight of homeless animals. Everything he did, he did with passion and feeling—both joy and sorrow touched him deeply.
On June 22, 2018, I saw his smile for the last time. We shared a meal; he left to see friends, promising to return early the next day. At 2 a.m. on June 23, police came to my door. My son, only 25, had been shot multiple times and killed. In a single moment, our lives were shattered. He had served in the Army National Guard, was doing well at work, had been approved for a home loan, and dreamed of starting a family. Some men we didn’t know took all of that away.
Brandon’s funeral was filled with stories of his life, love, and laughter. The church sanctuary and overflow were packed with friends and family. Hearing how he had impacted others reminded me just how deeply he was loved.
People often ask how I continue to smile after such a loss. My faith and gratitude guide me. My heart aches, but thinking of Brandon brings joy amidst the pain. When I smile, I see him smiling back. When I laugh, I hear him laughing. When I cry, I feel him trying to make it better.
Though Brandon is gone from this world, I choose to live fully, fiercely, and with purpose. I carry him with me, in my actions and in my heart. I allow myself to grieve, to feel, to remember, and then I channel that love into life. I will never forget my son. I will represent him, honor him, and live in a way that reflects both him and the Father who watches over us.
