ToquiNotes: Recalling the Life of My First Best Friend
By Jeff Toquinto on April 11, 2026 from ToquiNotes
He was my first best friend. Outside of my own mother and father, as well as my sister, no one has known me longer.
For more than 57 years, my brother Tim was a constant in this life. Whether it was to make me laugh, go on a rant about sports teams, debate about food in the area, or tell childhood and adolescent stories over and over, if there was a discussion about anything, he and I had it.
The discussions ended suddenly on a Sunday morning, March 29. Shortly after 7 a.m., my brother, who had just turned 59 years of age, passed away. Although it was sudden, there did not appear to be suffering, and the final struggle was brief.
I am not mentioning this for reasons of pity. Far from it. Having had my brother for that 57-year period is a blessing. Having been close to him, particularly in the last few years of his life, is a blessing manifested.
The discussion here is about things I have learned. They are lessons, hopefully, that others can apply. They are lessons I realized that had paid dividends as I began to spread the news to those he cared about on a long drive home after his passing. They rang true as I called dozens of friends and family members to let them know what had happened. It was not a task I expected nor wanted, but a task I knew was mine.
It was a task that, dripping with emotion, let me know what I already knew but never gave much thought – he was loved. Not just by friends and family as I knew, but by others. Strangers to me. Family to him.
For more than a year, my brother called Riverside Landing Skilled Nursing & Rehabilitation in McConnelsville, Ohio home. His health,
which had left him without the ability to walk, had led him there.
which had left him without the ability to walk, had led him there.
Somehow, he made the most of the situation. It was apparent on my visits there with my now late mother, friends, and his son Camron; and it was extremely apparent the morning he passed, that this staff of strangers I may never see again, were part of a family not made by blood, but every bit as real.
The hurt that morning from several was noticeable. They had lost more than a resident. They had lost a friend. They had lost family.
I had several discussions early on his final Sunday morning before and after he passed with their staff. They said they loved him, they talked of his sense of humor, more than one said he brightened their day, and one said he was “her best friend.” This was not hyperbole meant to ease a person emotionally distraught. They were meant to tell that person that his brother mattered to them.
I played the words, the looks of sadness, the tears of people I did not know through my mind many times as my wife Valerie, by my side 
every second and going on just a few hours of sleep after a long drive to Ohio early that morning and on the way home, drove our vehicle as I made phone calls.
every second and going on just a few hours of sleep after a long drive to Ohio early that morning and on the way home, drove our vehicle as I made phone calls.
In between, my mind thought of what he had recently dealt with.
Tim made the most of a situation far from ideal. He did that often in life.
The brothers Toquinto did not grow up lavishly, which was the norm for our entire neighborhood. Yet, we made the most of it. We made up games. We played outside from dawn until dusk. We fought a few hundred times or more as brothers do.
He made the most of his time in school, both at North View Junior High and then at Liberty High School. He bonded with new friends, dozens if not hundreds of them today that still call him friend, and many of them who were on hand Wednesday to pay respect to him at a memorial service.
Tim made the most of a job a lot of people would not consider sexy and one he had trepidation about when he took it. He worked for decades at Eastpointe Kmart until it closed its doors for good.
During that time, my brother made countless friends – many of whom I have never met and will never know and many more I met at the memorial. What I do know is that at Kmart, and at every other stop, he made people laugh.
As I noted in his obituary, if my brother was given a gift from God, it was a sense of humor. He did not take it lightly. He was light years ahead of people funny from our time as kids – when I was often the victim – until his final days.
I tried to focus on those thoughts a bit as I held his hand in his final hours. For a while, those thoughts faded and the inevitable sadness 
crept in that comes with losing a loved one. This was not new ground, but as we departed his facility in Ohio, I ventured onto emotional ground that I had no idea how to grasp.
crept in that comes with losing a loved one. This was not new ground, but as we departed his facility in Ohio, I ventured onto emotional ground that I had no idea how to grasp.
My wife and I carried everything my brother physically owned, all his physical possessions of this world, in two bags. Although it was a result of making him eligible for Medicaid, it was a punch to the gut that staggered me upon realization of what we had.
The emotional pain of that moment would subside in the hours-long ride home as I made the phone calls to friends and family. I realized Tim’s wealth was plentiful. The emotion of those I talked to, the grief clearly visible in voices and in sobs, let me know that he had all the resources needed in life. He had the love of family and friends, built on a foundation of laughter for nearly six decades.
Despite the two bags, his cup runneth over.
My brother and I loved one another. There was no doubt. We never really vocalized it until he went to Ohio where he would spend his remaining days.
Every call, which was essentially every day, and on every visit, the departure was the same. “I love you.” They were last words we said to one another.
The lessons, the point of this blog?
Make the most of where you are. Determine what God has given you and utilize it. Be sure and tell everyone you love them – and regularly – because it is never too late until it is too late. Be a good father, brother, husband, and friend no matter the hand life deals you. And understand what 
wealth truly is.
wealth truly is.
Those two bags I walked out with were not even full. My brother, however, was always full of life, full of love, full of laughter.
I have seen the comments. I have read the tributes. I felt hugs, prayers, and kind words. I watched as a son of a dear friend set up a GoFundMe page to send him off properly in this world. I did not know how it would go, but I should have had faith.
The funds poured in. They poured in at a level where we had to stop the fundraising.
I was, and remain, thankful and humbled. His son Camron, his best friend on this earth, was humbled. Our entire family was humbled and have a debt in which we can never fully repay.
He was loved. And loved to the extreme.
The bags were just material items of this earth. The love, the friendships are a legacy that carries on. It is real wealth.
Rest in peace Tim. Your work here is finished.
