I remember the nebulizer.

I remember having to sit up for hours at a time so that the vapors could open my airways.

I remember my eyelids growing heavy, wanting desperately to lie down.

I remember being told that the cold made my lungs sick.

I remember the annoying sound of wheezing that emanated from my own body.

I remember the library and not the playground.

I remember mom bringing buckets of snow inside so I could build a snowman.

I remember landing in the ER when I was six.

I remember how the nurses said I needed to stay overnight until it became a week.

I remember the tears mom tried to hide, hoping I'd be okay.

I remember how the doctors pumped me with medicine and steroids until I could breathe again.

I remember the barbie doll at the end of the bed because it was Christmas morning.

I remember with each season, the cold began to beat less on my lungs.

I remember learning to run and pushing myself until I got further and farther.

I remember endurance would make me stronger.

I remember one day the wheezing stopped.

I remember waking up, inhaling, and leaving the house without a second thought.

I remember skiing with a bare face.

I remember kissing the boy I loved on a frosted hill.

I remember dancing drunkenly through the freezing nights before Monday lectures.

I remember walking to the movies against a blizzard when the streets were closed.

I remember Prague in winter.

I remember the nebulizer less.