Seems like only yesterday when the word reminisce wasn't part of my vocabulary. As a matter of fact, it was reserved in invisible ink at the end of my dictionary. But now, as I flip through the remaining pages of my life it is seeping to the surface in a bold 20-point font that leaves little room for the rest of my story.

Yesterday, I ran into my ex-brother-in-law at the gym and as we walked the track and shared memories that we had in common, I looked around and realized that at 11 am almost everyone around me was wearing wrinkles. I knew there was a reason I avoided that time slot. I slowed down my pace. Didn't want to catch up with them, they were on a faster track than one I wanted to be on.

He told me that he always used that half hour track time to reminisce. There was that word again, the one I avoided at all costs. The old people's alphabetical taboo that I always associated with shifting into low gear and short- term memory loss.

Just last week my sister Mimi and I were discussing this encroaching phenomenon. Two years younger than me we share, in addition to our memories, several of the same aches and pains that have wormed their way into our aging process. More evidence that we were heading toward our final chapter, albeit a long one, I hope.

She told me that every night before she went to sleep, she would close her eyes and navigate the rooms of our childhood home as well as that of our grandparents where we spent many a weekend. As she roamed the familiar corridors visions of a less complicated life emerged. I admitted that I did the same thing. Conjuring the physical appearance and placement of items triggered vivid recollections for us both.

The frayed green carpet in the living room that I had frantically applied Rit dye to when Mom was working, hoping to brighten it up, had turned out to be a fiasco. The worn spots absorbed it all and when it was finished, it looked like it had been tie-dyed.

Mimi sighed as she unfolded a memory that triggered a deep- seated appreciation of our mom's efforts. To the left of the bunks, a closet door swung open. Hanging on the inside door were two beautiful organdy dresses; a pink one with sky-blue butterflies and a twin design in a paler shade of blue sporting yellow birds. My sister and I felt like we were soaring every time we donned these matching shades of love, hand sewn by our mother, the seamstress.

What one of us forgets, the other one fills In the blanks.

"Remember that old mangle iron?"

"Oh, yeah. Under the kitchen window that faced the back retainer wall."

"And the wild grapes that ran the length of the backyard that the wall held in check?"

"Oh, my God, no. I had forgotten all about those."

Together Mimi and I have entered the reconstruction business.

Yesterday I referred to this as remembering. But I have discovered that included in that process bad times have a way of rearing their ugly heads. Ah, but Reminiscing, bring it on. It's all good. I have just increased my vocabulary.