Why I Loved Rediscovering My Ex-Husband

by Carolyn See

“I’m proud of you,” he said. “I’m proud of us.” Then he began to cry.

This afternoon, barreling along the road from Valparaiso to Santiago, our tour bus slammed into a car. The young woman driver died instantly. She’d been eating; her mouth was full of jam. I’ll call Tom when I get home, just to talk—even if he won’t remember—on the theory that life is short, brutal, dangerous, but unbearably sweet. I’ll call just to hear his voice again, as we both skid along our own iffy roads toward inevitable oblivion.