A dry-erase dream about glue and memory

I'm wiping a whiteboard clean at the end of a day that never ends, and every erased word leaves a faint carbon copy of itself underneath. The children file past one by one to thank me for things I don't remember teaching them—names I never wrote, projects I never helped with. The last kid hands me a glue stick that's already melted, and I realize I've been holding it the whole time.