I will pass the moon.

Promises to ninety-one-year-olds are scary things.

“Y’all come back,” Betty pleaded with me for the hundredth time.

She’d made us promise to do so dozens of times by now, me and my five cast mates. We’d come to visit the nursing home where she lived to get in touch with senior citizens because four of us are grandparents in our upcoming play, Over the River and Through the Woods. Once again, I smiled and repeated our promise to come back to visit.

But then she looked at me, her ninety-one-year-old eyes deeply troubled, and added something else. Something that had been bothering her, nagging at her, forcing her to beg us over and over to promise to come back. “Some people come and leave their son or daughter here. And they never come back.”

I smiled as I replied, “We won’t be those people. We’ll come back.”

Inside, though, I was caught off guard, suddenly sobered by the haunting desperation in her voice and eyes.

Okay, remember my “Diapers. Legos. Destiny.” post? I know all you multitudes of rabid followers of my blog are following with every fiber of your strength and eagerly keeping track of every single post, but just in case… That was the one about how yesterday, I was tiny, helpless, toddler-age Jaelyn. And tomorrow, Jaelyn will be newly-grown-up me.

Well today, I have had an equally staggering revelation.

Yesterday, Betty was me.

Tomorrow, will I be Betty?

Just a snap of the fingers back in time, and Betty was barely nineteen—on the threshold of adulthood, overwhelmed with the immensity of life and all its brilliant promise and anticipation. Where I am this instant. Where Jaelyn will be the next.

And now, her nineteen has turned inside-out and become ninety-one, and she’s no longer on the same threshold. She’s come full circle.

I don’t have long to be nineteen.

Today is already almost tomorrow.

I vividly remember sitting in the car as a six-year-old with the knowledge that at eleven years old, I would need to get certain medical shots. I hated shots.

But that’s okay, I thought with relief. I will never be eleven.

Guess what. Eleven came and went so fast that I’m still kind of freaking out about it. And every single year, month, day, hour moves progressively faster, or at least seems to. When I look at somebody like Betty and think, But that’s okay—I will never be ninety-one, I am suddenly overwhelmed. Talk about a freaky déjà vu. Because I was so wrong when I thought that about eleven, and I know I’m even more wrong to think it about ninety-one.

I will never be ninety-one? Swell, Randi.

Try I will never be nineteen—ever again.

This is my one shot.

I only have one chance.

If I blink, I’ll miss it.

I’m not going to miss it. I’m not going to blink. I’m going to aim my one shot at life with everything in me at the bull’s-eye, and I’m going to hit it.

I’m going to shoot for the moon. And you know those cute little journals and inspirational cards that say, “Don’t be afraid to shoot for the moon. Even if you miss, you’ll land among the stars”? Well, as a good friend of mine taught me to think, if I shoot for the moon, I’m dang getting the moon. Or even further—as my cousin would say, not if but when I shoot for the moon, I’m passing it.

Big claims, I know. But if I don’t make those claims now, if I don’t seize the day now, I won’t stand a chance. And ninety-one will find me dazed, befuddled, and not prepared. I don’t mean to be arrogant; I mean to live. Really live.

Catch me when I’m ninety-one. Let’s both find out how this story ends.