Annie Eliza Brimhall — Journal

March 14, 1891 — Manti, Utah

The air today was cold and sharp, the kind that settles into your bones and reminds you what season it is. Father came in from the fields early. The snow has not let up. Mother made soup from the last of the dried beans, and we sat together around the table while the wind pressed against the windows.

I have been thinking about what it means to keep a record. Brother Pratt spoke in meeting last Sunday of the importance of writing down our days — not for vanity, but so that those who come after us might know what we endured, and what we loved.

I am not a grand writer. But I am here, and these days are real, and I will write them down.

March 16, 1891

George came by with the Merrill family. His youngest, a boy named William, is barely two and runs everywhere. I held him for a moment and he looked at me with great seriousness, as if judging whether I could be trusted.

I think I passed.

March 19, 1891

It snowed again. I read the Bible by candlelight until my eyes hurt. There is something about these long nights that makes the small things feel very large.