Two girls. They smile and play, their young, innocent, cherubic faces knowing nothing but joy. They are whatever their six-year-old hearts desire: world-famous supermodels, two princesses in their castle, or a pair of top-secret agents for the FBI.

They are a late midsummer evening, a peaceful suburban backyard. They are the moon, lazily rising from behind the trees. The blinking fireflies they catch, only to release them 5 seconds later. The distant barking of a Golden Retriever. They are the lavender horizon, shot with pink and orange streaks, distant outlines of stars, comets, and undiscovered planets.

They will walk a thousand miles for a box of candy, staying up past midnight is about as easy as canoeing across the Sahara. They are the candy cell phones that they pretend to talk to each other on. They are learning how the world works. They can’t wait to age a few years, can’t wait to be like the “big kids” they admire so much.

They see the world in a different way than teenagers or adults: a cardboard refrigerator box is a castle fit for a queen; a blanket tied around the neck is a superhero’s cape. That old rusty key they found on the sidewalk opens a door to a far-off world where animals talk and kids can do magic. They just have to find the right door.

Two girls. They are best friends, forever trapped in a 5x7 glossy photo. They are innocence, they are hope. They will never change, forever living in the moment.