Barry Kimm passed on April 8th, 2014, four days before my birthday, and nine days after the death of his wife, Susan. When Susan was diagnosed with cancer, the two of them dropped everything and took a road trip around the country, seeing everything they had never had the chance to, documenting their travels and taking photographs, their shared talent and passion.

Susan passed on March 29th, and Barry soon followed, taking his own life, unable to live without her. The memorial service for Susan became the memorial service for both of them. They lived as one and died as one.

The man himself never meant much to me. I’m fairly certain that he never knew of my existence, nor was I aware of him for much of my early life. As a child, the idea of my biological father wasn’t anything more than a blurry figure in the distance, static, unimposing, and unimportant. Until the young man who would eventually raise me introduced himself, the only form of fatherly love that my infant mind had grown accustomed to was my grandfather’s, and I lived the early years of my life in blissful ignorance, devoid of any notion that there might be have been someone else out there with whom I was inherently connected.

My acknowledgement of the “missing-link” within me coincided with our move across the country. At eleven years old, still afloat in the euphoric ignorance of pre-pubescence, I found myself riding shotgun in a blue 1994 Honda Civic hatchback, packed to the brim, as my adopted father steered us further and further away from everything I knew. We departed Olympia, Washington in the summer of 2003, en route to Providence, Rhode Island, a 4 day drive if your pushing it, and a journey that I would become well accustomed to.