I lost a friend this weekend.

Castle High School baseball coach Joe Tom Jr. passed away at his home July 11.

Joe was my next-door neighbor. As in many local neighborhoods, our households were close, literally. I could hold my morning cup of coffee out the window and Joe could add cream and sugar.

When conditions are that tight, you have no choice but to become friends or endure years of anguish. Luckily for me, making friends with Joe, his wife, Bobbie, and his four children was an easy task. They're good folks.

While death will come to each of us one day, Joe's passing was truly unexpected. He was young, active and had plans for the immediate and distant future. While no loss is easy, these types of unexpected passings are even harder on family and friends. But, it is those same family and friends that begin the healing process. In Joe's case, they pulled together like few I have ever seen. In fact, it started the night he passed away.

It did not take long for neighbors to gather and respond to the family. These were not gawkers, rubberneckers or ambulance chasers; these were neighbors with whom Joe grew up.

They were friends from hanabata days, and you could tell they were close. Even as chaos reigned, they walked right into the house to help in any way possible. They had the type of familiarity that only comes with generations of time spent together.

Their actions said what words could not. "We are here for you. You are not alone."

That night my family huddled together and cried our own tears, feeling the loss, but knowing how much greater that loss must be for the Tom family. At midnight, we finally fell asleep, the three of us in one room holding on tightly to each other, not wanting to let go.

The next morning I walked outside to get the paper, half expecting Joe to meet me at the mailbox. Instead, I was greeted by a line of cars on either side of the road. The next wave of support had arrived.

By noon, we delivered some barbecue chicken and rice assuming that the last thing the family should worry about is food. We were not the only ones thinking along these lines. It seemed there was a new arrival at the top of every hour and soon the house was full and bristling with life despite the void left by Joe's passing.

As family and friends walked in the door, their presence again told the family: "We are here for you. You are not alone."

I can't pretend that Joe and I were best friends, but I can say that we genuinely liked each other and enjoyed each other's company, and that I am going to miss him. I can also say without reservation that for Joe, family came first, and the thought of his family having to go on without him would have broken his heart.

Still, I have to believe that if he could see what has transpired over the last week or so, he would find comfort in the fact that his legacy has lived on. Family still comes first, and in his absence, family and friends have pulled together. Don't worry Joe, we are all here for them. They are not alone.

Michael C. DeMattos is a member of the faculty at the University of Hawai'i school of social work. Born and raised on the Wai'anae Coast, he now lives in Kane'ohe with his wife, daughter, two dogs, two mice and 1,000 worms.