William Brandon Lacy Campos died last week. He was someone I met when he was a college student grieving over the traumatic death of a friend. He was sharp, compassionate, quick to defend those in pain and call out their oppressors.
I also found out he was funny, anxious, and up to the elbows in life’s toybox.
With all that, I barely knew him to speak to. My very last exchange with him was about three weeks ago, and it was food talk. He had posted some photos of a dish that turned out particularly well, and I mentioned the parsnip curry I was making. “That sounds fierce!” he said.
When he died, his friends were tagging him in photographs all over the place, and they were showing up in my news feed, tearing at my heart.
So I dedicated one night of my It Gets Better lamp to him.
That helped, but not enough, so I lit him a candle of his own.
Last night, my daughter — who can see spirits come and go — heard “someone” walking around in the chapel; a few days ago, she saw “someone with glasses” in the kitchen out of the corner of her eye. On both occasions, there were no living humans present; she checked.
So, is it the shiny activism, the chance to meet Bayard Rustin, or my cooking? Probably all of it.
Welcome, Brandon, a thousand times welcome.