Alison Leigh Cowan

My sister was a master knitter. When she died, I picked up her needles — literally.

I had no idea what it was when I discovered the cylinder of striped wool in my younger sister’s knitting bag shortly after she succumbed to cancer two years ago at 56. Knit from the creamiest of wools, the tube featured alternating bands of gray and brown in no discernible rhythm. It was 33 inches…