—ANNE SULLIVAN TO SOPHIA HOPKINS, MARCH 1887 The morning starts like any other. Helen washes and dresses herself as I’ve taught her, but it falls to me to brush her hair. The brush is something she tolerates only because it’s a point I refuse to compromise. The change begins with a ribbon, a length of yellow satin from one of Mrs. Keller’s forgotten sewing baskets. I’ve always loved pretty things, fine clothing especially. The weave of well-made cloth, the precision of neat rows of stitches, and the intricacies of lace and ribbons delight my fingers. “Once upon a time,” I muse as I guide the brush through Helen’s hair, “there was a little girl named Johanna, but everyone called her Annie. Her father worked the Taylor farm, and Annie wished more than anything in the world to have a hat as beautiful as the Taylor girl’s. Well, one day her father bought her a hat—a white one, with a blue ribbon and a pink rose.” My hand stills a moment, remembering. The Taylor girl never had such a beautiful hat.
