I spoke to my 89-year-old Aunt Esther on the phone a month ago and wanted to tell her how much she had meant to me in my life.

I had just finished one of my long philosophical discussions with my Uncle Henry and would have loved to ask her how she'd always so adroitly held her ground in the middle between my uncle, a Rush Limbaugh conservative, and my grandmother, a New Deal liberal.

But Aunt Esther was slipping away into Alzheimer's, and it soon became clear that I was too late. She was pleasant as always and tried to carry on a conversation, but it was obvious that she wasn't entirely sure who I was.

Mother's Day was that weekend, and all I could think of was to send her flowers to let her know in a nonverbal way how I'd always thought of her and Uncle Henry as my second parents, even though they'd not had children of their own.

A couple of weeks later, I heard that Aunt Esther had fallen ill and been hospitalized, then placed in a nursing home upon her release.

On Saturday, Uncle Henry called to let me know she had died in her sleep. Aunt Esther had lived a long and good life, and there was no arguing that it was her time, but she had been one of the rocks of our family during the 52 years of their marriage, and I was deeply saddened by her passing.

It did make me feel good when Uncle Henry told me that the flowers I sent for Mother's Day made her happy and were a bright spot in her final weeks. I was grateful to have had one last chance to reach out to someone I'd cared about very much.

I had an eerily similar experience with my friend Jim, one of my closest pals from Hilo High.

We hadn't been in touch for a few years until I received a mass e-mail from a mutual friend in early May. I noticed Jim's name on the list of recipients and realized how much I missed him.

Jim was the kind of guy who naturally drew people to him. He had a sharp and creative mind, was passionate about everything he took an interest in, wore his emotions on his sleeve and overcame much adversity to make his way in life.

I e-mailed him to ask if everything was OK with him and tell him that all was reasonably well with me. He replied that he was fine and was looking forward to a trip back to Hilo for his niece's wedding and ultimately "blessed retirement" from his work as a roofing contractor.

We declared ourselves "best ole buddies" and promised to keep in closer touch.

A couple of weeks later, I was stunned to receive word from the same mutual friend that Jim had suddenly become ill May 18 at his home in California and died in the emergency room.

The unexpected news left me shaken, but as with Aunt Esther, I was extremely grateful for that little bit of final contact.

We look for comforting lessons to help us deal with death: Keep in touch with the people we care about, for we never know when chances will run out.

None of us knows how much longer we have to live, so all we can control is the quality we find in whatever time we have left.

And with that in mind, I'm going to hit the send button on these reflections and go pick up my grandkids and take them to the zoo.

David Shapiro, a veteran Hawai'i journalist, can be reached by e-mail at dave@volcanicash.net. Read his daily blog at blogs.honoluluadvertiser.com.