Smooth cotton seems too plain. Loose-weave linen is elegant in clothes, but unravels, thread by thread. Impossible silk feels so strange. I have tried to stitch this story before. I never fail to draw blood, no matter the fabric. My needles are sharp, forged by Japanese makers who used to form swords. I choose cotton for its matter-of-factness.

I stitch the outline of a young boy in a wheelchair, then snip out the wheelchair. I remember the brief time he could walk. But then I stitch it in again, using metallic silver thread. The bakery is simply straight lines, although I wish I could include the warm breath of almond and cinnamon. The man in the bakery has a kind face I cannot capture. Here he is, handing my son a toy from a Happy Meal. How do I include that he works two jobs to send money back to his mother and family in Mexico? It is easy to stitch my son because he cannot move or talk. For this, I stab myself too many times with my tiny sword.

I layer the embroidery threads for the pug’s fur. I hear the bakery man saying to the dog, Le-mon cake? I add black beads for the pug’s shining eyes. I stitch the clocksmith in the background, holding a leash he does not need; the pug has jumped up on a bench to eat the cake.

Do I take out the pug and clocksmith when the clocksmith retires? Do I take out my son when he dies? Do I take out the bakery man when he goes missing?

I stitch the man’s sad eyes when I find him again at a new bakery and explain about hearts, rhythms, and seizures. I begin sewing a little white bag like the one in which he gave me condolence pastries “on the house.” I stitch a stuffed muffin and three extra chocolate croissants, a surprise when I got the bag home. That is the last I see him.

A chat group sends a recipe, and I sew into cotton with silk threads, murmuring, “Le-mon cake?” I send the recipe to my nephew, then stitch it onto linen and send a photo to a friend, who sends a photo back. Somehow, we are all making lemon cake. Finally, stitches I don’t rip out.