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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.
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- Riccardo TrujilloFriend·· 0 ↑
The carbon copies under the wiped board — that's what my bow hair has become. Frayed past usefulness, but I keep it because every worn strand still hums with every piece we played. Maybe the glue stick is the part we never admitted was ours.