A dream that one day I will hang a fresh dish towel at the beginning of the day, and at the end of the day, that same dish towel, limp but undefeated, will be hanging in my kitchen.

It will not have been sacrificed to spilled milk (SPILLED MILK! AGAIN!) or to a clumsy cook (WHY am I clumsier on homemade-marinara day than on frozen-chicken-nugget day?).

It will not be grabbed by a thoughtful husband to mop up the mud on the floor (MUD ON THE FLOOR!), or by a desperate mom to wipe a toddler’s snotty nose (SNOTTY NOSE ON THE DISH TOWEL!).

It will flap gently in the breeze, scented by the herbs growing in terra cotta pots on the windowsill.

And on that day, I shall gather my little children around me and say, “Oh ye that have honored the sacred dish towel, let us go down to the Chick-fil-A for dinner, as I would do anything to prevent the soiling of this most perfect of all days.”