 I put together a page for Keith’s Polaroid/Instax Collection — a small archive of the instant photos and memories that help show the way he saw the world.
Some of these are funny, strange, beautiful, ordinary, and heartbreaking. I’m so grateful to have them gathered in one place. If you have a photo, memory, or story of Keith you’d like to share, please complete the online form. I’d love to keep adding to these memorial pages.
1 Comment
The only reason I have seen any photos of Keith’s apartment — including what was there after he died — is because I used public records when Grafton did not provide that information directly. I found photographs of a Burlington fire truck and police car on the one SD card I received on Friday, May 8. They were taken in October 2025, shortly after Keith moved to Burlington, Washington. It is eerie to see those emergency vehicles through Keith’s camera now, knowing what happened later. I keep thinking about the 911 call a week prior to his death and the response of the fire department to his apartment the day he died. I am grateful I pushed Grafton to look for the cameras I saw in the Fire Marshal’s report. Without that report, and without continuing to ask, I would never have known these pictures existed.          Photo sent from Andy Zabel of Keith Connor's personal belongings At 1:50 a.m. EDT on Wednesday, April 29, Grafton Place’s lawyer sent the first and only photo I have received after more than two months of asking whether Keith’s sentimental belongings had been saved. Keith Connor died on Monday, February 23. Now this appears to be what will be released to us. Maybe. After everything that has happened, I do not trust that even this is certain. At 7:24:23 a.m. EDT that same morning, I sent Grafton Place’s lawyer a camera collage I had assembled.  Photo sent to Andy Zabel of cameras that were in Keith's apartment after his death It shows cameras I found in the Fire Marshal’s Report. I had spent hours going through more than 200 photos of Keith’s apartment. It wasn’t easy. The images of the scene, the home where Keith died, were unsettling and disturbing. I cropped out the parts that made me gasp, that made me cry. I was looking for clues. Looking for what might have been saved. Looking for what was probably lost. There were cameras in the apartment. There were photographs. There were personal items that mattered. Were memory cards recovered? Were family photos discarded? Were other irreplaceable items thrown away without documentation? I may never know. And after all of this, I am still waiting to learn what they expect us to pay to have the items shown in their photo shipped home. It has been more than two months since Keith died. Why is there still another delay? At this point, it would almost be comical if it were not so cruel. One of my oldest friends made me laugh out loud with her blunt summary: "It appears they think this is rocket science. Put stuff in a box. Mail it." But the word “comical” has another meaning in my family now. My twin sister, Malinda, is tormented by the last text she received from Keith. "Maybe I'll die a comical wheelchair death." He had texted her that the brakes on his wheelchair had broken and he didn’t know how to get a new one. "Hopefully the NP can help next week." My sister never found out if he got the help he needed. Her last text to him: "Be careful please 🙏" There was no reply.    I’ve been ignored — by my husband, by Tamra Youngblut at Grafton Place Apartments, and now by Andy Zabel at Houlihan Law, her legal representative. It feels like punishment. I keep trying to make it mean I deserve it. I never replied to the last text message Keith Connor sent me. “I leave tomorrow wish me luck” I didn’t wish him luck. I honestly don’t even know if I saw that message in real time. There are other texts he sent me—very disturbing ones—telling me to share an angry message with his brother, my husband. I can’t remember if I saw those in real time either. I know I saw them at some point and decided I couldn’t engage. I didn’t want to disobey my husband, who told me not to get involved with his brother. I didn’t want to get pulled into the drama of someone who was suffering from what appeared to be a psychotic break. I had done that before in 2017–2018 with a friend, and it didn’t end well. I remembered the late-night messages, the accusations, the feeling that every reply only pulled me deeper into a reality I could not fix. I’m trying to tell my husband how much I’ve been suffering. He tells me I’m bringing this on myself by pursuing the quest to retrieve Keith’s photographs. He wanted me to give up when Tamra Youngblut hung up on me. I am trying to tell my husband that I am Keith. I want a relationship with him that I cannot have, just like Keith. Closeness. Trust. Feeling supported. He says I want to be a victim, but I’m not. “Now that Keith’s dead, he’s a saint.” My identical twin sister responded to Keith’s final text message. She had the last word. I’m envious. I confess I have not had the bandwidth to ask my sister how she’s doing through all this. We have a unique relationship with a lot of baggage, and it’s been strained for the years she’s been living in my basement. My husband would tell me to be nice to my sister. I would tell him to be nice to his brother. An ongoing loop. Keith was not a saint. Keith was not the devil. He was complicated and complex, like most of us are. He had serious physical health issues. He had severe mental health struggles that were undisclosed to many in his life. He also had friends who heard about his suicidal ideations. Some people walked away because they couldn’t watch him destroy himself. Some people tried everything they could to help him. Some people had happy memories from years and years ago. Some stayed. Some stepped away. Some were pushed away. Keith worried about how he would be remembered. We probably all do, to some extent, but hearing Keith's friend say that to me last week brought me to tears. I’ve done so much trying to make sure Keith is not forgotten and that people have a space to share their photos and memories for others to find someday. I’ve been listening to Sinéad O’Connor’s song “Take Me to Church” on repeat for days now. “I've done so many bad things, it hurts” I’ve done things that hurt the people I love... the people who love me. I’ve done things that hurt myself, too. It’s a loop of regret and anger and grief. I noticed Keith’s profile picture changed to a default icon. “That’s not good,” I thought. I didn’t do anything. I got distracted with my own problems. I’ve screamed and cried to my husband, to a few friends, but mostly to my twin. I haven’t asked her how she’s doing yet. It feels like I’m failing her. I tell her I promise we can work on our relationship just as soon as we get closure with Grafton Place. I can’t deal with anything else difficult until that’s settled. I had a friend, Nicole Paul, who was murdered when I was in grad school. This was a year before I met my husband. I was having problems with some other guy that I was dumping on her via email. We had plans to get together that weekend, but we never saw each other. The last message I got from her: “Cheer up girlfriend. It’s the weekend!” At her memorial service, I think I was the first friend to get up and speak. I shared that story of her last email to me. Another friend shared a story about how they had a huge fight, a falling out. She regretted that was how things ended, but comforted herself by saying that our dead friend only got that angry with people she really cared about. Did I have closure with Nicole? I had that message from her. I had plans with her. I have a lot of relationships to repair. I need to start with my twin sister. I’ve been trying to spend more time with her after months of scheduling our comings and goings to avoid seeing each other. That sounds so awful to admit. We went to karaoke for the first time together last week. I sang “Mercy Street” by Peter Gabriel and my twin sang “Free to Decide” by the Cranberries. This morning, I asked my twin to go for a walk to get coffee before she leaves for a trip to Philadelphia. The forecast said rain. Instead, there was a beautiful, colorful sky.  The Process ... all of my writings since Keith's death.  Three words. I’ve known them since the day I found out Keith was dead. The Fire Marshal’s report confirms there were three words. They’ve been redacted. I know what they said. I’m done being patient and understanding of how “difficult” this situation is for Grafton Place. My experience over the past two months has been many, many, many times worse. I’ve documented responses from Tamra Youngblut, the apartment manager, and shared them with attorneys, law enforcement, and Burlington, Washington officials. The reactions I’ve received:
All of these can be true at once. I’ve uncovered contradictions in Tamra’s statements—both in what she told me directly and what’s reflected in official records. Multiple systems failed—when Keith was alive and now that he’s dead. A week before he died, a 911 wellness check was conducted after a friend called with concerns. The responding officer did not enter the building and did not follow up the next day—despite being given an address next to Grafton Place. His determination was that Keith was not a resident of Burlington. He was. I don’t blame that officer. I understand hindsight is 20/20. I don’t even know what proper protocol is in situations like this. But the what-ifs don’t go away. Maybe we all need to do more when we see someone struggling. Maybe nothing we do will ever be enough. I don’t have those answers. What I do know is that Keith mattered. He mattered to me, to my family, and to so many others. On Sunday, April 19, I’ll be walking with my twin sister in Keith’s honor at a suicide prevention walk. If you’re reading this, take a moment today to tell someone you love that they matter—that they would be missed. Before it’s too late. If you’ve been following me, you know I’ve only asked for Keith’s Polaroid collection. I know it was important to him that someone who would appreciate it have it. These photos of Polaroids scattered across his apartment may be all I receive. I’ve done everything I can to honor Keith and to make sure that something meaningful to him, and to me, isn’t thrown away. That may still be how this ends. I’m learning to accept that. I shouldn’t have to.  Postscript: My Three Words This ordeal has brought my identical twin sister and me closer together. She’s seen me cry. Scream. Sit at my computer for hours. She’s listened. She’s shared this story in her communities. I would not have gotten through this without her. Thank you, Malinda! My three words. I love you.  The Process ... all of my writings since Keith's death. |
Home } Resume } Design Portfolio | Blog | Creative Writing
About | Family | Passions | Social } Contact | Twins Run 55
agoodgroup.org
About | Family | Passions | Social } Contact | Twins Run 55
agoodgroup.org
|