 There’s a scene in one of my favorite shows, Six Feet Under, when Claire talks about the death of her brother, Nate, that she can only think of the bad times. Sadly, a lot of my memories of Keith revolve around sickness and death — of his brother, then his father, then his mother. For whatever reasons, I didn’t see or reach out to Keith much outside of those tragic circumstances, so when Fran told me he was going to visit Keith in San Francisco in 2024, I sent him a message. What transpired over the next few days online made me feel so connected yet regretful at the same time. We bonded over shared family drama, healthcare malpractice, and our love of Peter Gabriel. I had just seen Peter Gabriel in June 2023 in Dublin with my son, Laoghaire. Shockingly, our seats, labeled Row H, were actually front row. I wrote to Keith that it was one of the best days of my life, especially sharing it with my son. During Fran’s trip to visit Keith, they went as VIP guests to Cirque du Soleil. Similarly he said it was one of the best nights of his life and the photo of him with his brother would be the last one they had together. As soon as I learned that Keith died, I went looking for photos on my phone. I didn’t have many, but I did have photos of Fran and Keith from a pre-wedding celebration at my parents’ house; a group photo from the Catholic blessing of our marriage; a group photo with Fran, Laoghaire and Keith during a visit before Michael’s death; and the only photo with both of my children, Laoghaire and Annalivia; Fran and Keith during a work trip to Seattle (a blurry picture of a novelty photo from the Space Needle); and this final photo of Keith and Fran from 2024 with these huge smiles from two brothers. When I started building the memorial website, I realized how small my collection of photos was. But the ones I did have mattered. They became the beginning of a collage — snapshots of moments we shared. Another one of my favorite memories of Keith is that Instagram post. I sent him a Snorlax Squishmallow on February 20, 2024. When it arrived he wrote: “I never realized I needed a Snorlax until a dear friend sent me one. And I really needed one.” When I saw that such a small gesture had such an impact, I felt such love. What amazed me most after Keith died was how many people reached out. Friends, coworkers, people from gaming communities — people I had never met before — shared stories, photos, and memories that slowly built a picture of a life much bigger than the fragments I had seen. One of the most special things was the photographs. People sent me pictures of Keith and his brothers as kids — laughing, goofing around, just being boys together. I had never seen any of them before. When I told Fran I finally had childhood pictures of him and Keith, his first reaction was: “Those better not end up on the internet.” Sorry Fran, they’re already there. Apparently Keith had a whole life of adventures I knew nothing about. Coachella twice. Photography everywhere. Gaming communities that clearly loved him. It turns out the quiet family member I barely knew had been living a much bigger life than I realized. Looking back at our messages from 2024, one line Keith wrote has stayed with me: “It’s kind of amazing how quickly we reconnected.” And it was. In just a few days we skipped over years of distance and found common ground — music, family, frustration, humor. When we talked about Peter Gabriel — one of the things we instantly bonded over — Keith mentioned how much he loved the album Melt. One line from that record has stayed with me. From the song “Family Snapshot”: “Today is different. Today is not the same. Today, I'll make the action. Take snapshot into the light.” A song about memory. About photographs. About the strange way moments freeze in time. Like many other Americans, I’ve become a fan of The Pitt. Even though I was frustrated by the storyline of the dying father, I was touched by the Hawaiian prayer that Dr. Robby shared with the children struggling to say goodbye to their dad. I have a lot of regrets about my relationship with Keith, mostly that the closest I felt to him was during the flurry of texts in 2024 and now — when I spent hours reaching out to all his friends on Facebook and coworkers on LinkedIn and learned so much I never knew about him and saw amazing photos of him and his brothers when they were just kids. Like many of my friends who read the tributes, the website I created for him made us all say the same thing: “I wish I could have known him.” I regret that I didn’t reach out to him in August 2025 when he lost his job, because that’s something else we had in common. I knew the pain and hopelessness one can feel when part of their identity — their life’s work — is gone. I knew the frustration of wanting love from people you cared about — especially Fran. I was going through my own struggles at the time and I lost touch with Keith again, but luckily I found out that he and my identical twin sister had contact in December 2025 and that gave me some solace and relief. Keith I love you. I’m sorry. Please forgive me. Thank you. Somewhere between the photos, the stories, and the songs, I found you again. Postscript After I finished writing this, another memory came back to me. Years ago, after one of the many family losses, Fran and I were in the car with Keith driving to the mall. The radio was playing a song that had just come out — “Hey Ya!” by Outkast. When the line came on -- “Shake it like a Polaroid picture.” Keith immediately started talking about it. At the time it was just one of those random conversations you have in a car. Now it feels like one more reminder of how memories work. Snapshots. Moments frozen in time. And the strange way they come back to us long after the moment has passed. Music had been a big part of the Connor brothers’ lives, though they rarely agreed on what counts as a good song. These are the songs that became the soundtrack for my tribute to Keith. Family Snapshot - A Playlist
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